Unlikely is an Understatement
by Eluned
Summary: -SSxHG- Hermione's been offered the potions position at Hogwarts. Dream come true for Our Heroine, right? Well, maybe if Snape weren't the Headmaster.
1. How the nightmare began

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never will be.  Belong to some lucky woman over in the UK. 

'Unlikely' is an Understatement Chapter 1    

                All in all it had been a good summer.  This year's return to Hogwarts would be bittersweet, certainly lacking in its former celebratory joy.  Hermione was more than a little sad to realize it was nearly September the first, and truth be told, a little apprehensive as well – both new feelings as concerned returning to school.  She was currently standing in the middle of what once could have been called her room and now could only be termed a National Disaster Area.  Clothing, books, and extraneous belongings were piled knee deep on the floor and covered every available surface in their wait to be packed.  One lucky suitcase was already waiting in the hall.  The other lay open on her bed as Hermione folded and shoved things into it.  There was something soothing about the methodical, precise process that was packing.  Hands busy, her mind was free to wander.

                Though, considering the events of the past two weeks, it might have been better not to let her mind free.  That was when she had received that too familiar envelope, and her blissful summer had been rudely interrupted.  Hermione had been staying with the Weasley's over the holiday.  Ron had come home from university – as bombastic and hot-blooded as ever – and Harry was on summer break from the English National team.  In the rare moments when they were not reliving the past as the Dream Team, Harry was stealing shy looks at Ginny Weasely, and smiling in a hazy, foolish way.  Molly Weasley, matron extraordinaire, was ecstatic to have children living in her house again to fuss over and yell at.  The other members of the Weasley clan were in and out; Arthur and Percy appearing rarely in the constant cleaning up at work, Fred and George nearly every day, Bill and Charlie on rare trips home, usually for convalescence.  

                It had been fun in an innocent, uncomplicated way.  The Dream Team, the Terrible Trio reunited for hunts of garden gnomes and covert operations to steal warm cookies and pies, acting like the eleven year olds they'd never had the chance to be.  At some point Harry and Ginny had started holding hands, and Ron was practically tearing Pig to pieces trying to get the mail, and Hermione, well, she'd spent some time reading in the sun with Crookshanks purring on her lap.  Then that fateful day, two weeks ago, when the mail arrived, rather oddly indeed, under the doorstep.

                It was the heavy parchment envelope she had seen once a year for seven years.  The one that had changed her life radically from the line it had been pursuing.  And she hadn't seen or received one in nearly three years.  Somehow she managed to hide it from three curious Weasley and one curious – and far too perceptive for his own good – Potter.  Reading it out in the garden alone had been, well, an experience.  

                "Miss Hermione Granger,

                                The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, after having assessed your work and credentials, is inclined to offer you the position of Potions Professor.  Please respond with your decision within the week.

                                                                                                Severus Snape

                                                                                                Headmaster

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry"

                Seeing his name signed to the letter had been an incredible shock.  Seeing the title Headmaster below it nearly put her into cardiac arrest.  The happy little hope that had been growing stronger as she read the letter committed an abrupt suicide.  Luckily, she also had the other letter to read.

                "Miss Granger,

                                Undoubtedly you've read Severus' letter.  He's not one for over emotional displays, even in his letters.  So I have taken it upon myself to assure you of the excitement all of the staff feels upon the possibility of your return to Hogwarts as a teacher.  We look forward to having another brilliant mind to provoke debate, and are especially anxious to se you return to us.  All shall be explained upon your return, and undoubtedly you have a great many questions.  Inquiring minds indeed deserve to know, and you will be fully enlightened upon your arrival.

                                                                                                Albus Dumbledore"

                She hadn't known whether to be thrilled or frightened.  Snape as headmaster, and she asked to be Potions Professor.  It was all thoroughly too much, and she was tempted to decline, in a desperate bid to save her sanity.  Had not Dumbledore sent the extra letter…Well, if he really did expect her to accept, she might as well go.  

                And so she found herself today, finishing her packing silently in her room, shrinking the last few clothes to fit in the suitcase.  The offending letter lay on her nightstand, looking as singularly menacing as a piece of paper possibly can.    She sighed and threw her weight on top of the suitcase, struggling to shut it.  Her train was due to leave in two hours, and she knew she still had to get through a tearful family farewell, as well as the inevitable panicked race through London to just make the train.  Hermione scanned the room carefully for a last time, pocketing odds and ends that she had missed.  Finally she took the letter and, without looking at it, carefully put it in the back pocket of her jeans before stepping out onto the landing and shutting the door.

                Rather surprisingly, she arrived at the platform with plenty of time to spare.  The ride was uneventful, and Hermione passed it in fitful sleep and nightmares of failure and misplaced faith.  Hogsmeade station was dark when she arrived, a good nine hours later – the regular train was rather slower than the Hogwart's Express.  There was not a soul on the platform, and after a few minutes of waiting, Hermione decided it would be best just to walk it.  She grabbed one bag in each hand and began to walk slowly towards the cheery lights of Hogsmeade.

                It was a good twenty minutes later when she reached the edge of the town, and faced the long, dark road to the castle doors.  With the warm glow of the town behind her, staying over for the night was looking better and better.  A few moments later she was trudging back in the direction of the Jolly Goblin, suitcases dragging in the dust.

                The inn was warm; everything bathed in the cheery orange glow of the fire.  It smelled vaguely of alcohol and sweat and people, but not of the spoiled beer and decaying food that defined so many other taverns.  The door swung closed behind her softly as she walked in and deposited her suitcases beside an empty table.  A knot of people was sitting near the fireplace, the only other occupants of the room.  Hermione turned back towards the front desk, intent on finding the proprietor.  She didn't notice when someone came up behind her, that is, until they put their hand on her shoulder and she jumped about three feet into the air.

                "Miss Granger, what a pleasure to find you here!  We didn't expect to see you at all tonight."  It was Professor Sprout, round face beaming with pleasant surprise.  She grabbed Hermione's bags in one hand and her elbow in another and led her over to the back table.  The knot of people Hermione had observed earlier was a group of her former professors, and soon to be colleagues.  

                There was Professor Flitwick, still as tiny and excitedly fluttery as she remembered, hands clutching a stein of beer that looked entirely to big for him.  He was speaking animatedly with Professor Sinistra, who was as tall and grave in appearance as she had been three years ago.  Hooch was sitting beside her, also clutching a glass, and arguing loudly with Hagrid.  The half giant beamed when he saw Hermione, and stood to give her a big hug, welcoming her back loudly, and slightly drunkenly.  A chair was found for her, and she was soon ensconced between Bill Weasley, the newest in a long line of Defense teachers, and Professor McGonagall.  Within moments she found herself with a beer in hand ("Come on Hermione, you're well enough of age!"), and Bill pushing a plate of something hot and delicious in front of her ("My mother would kill me if I left you in this famished state.")  Around her the merry chatter grew, leaving her content to listen and eat.

                "So, happy to be returning to us?" asked McGonagall.

                "Well, yes, very happy.  Hogwarts always was a second home.  It's just – " and she broke off swiftly, uncertain whether this was an appropriate place to air her anxiety.

                "Our wonderful headmaster?" called Hooch sarcastically from across the table, before taking another swig from her glass.  Laughter rippled around the table as Hermione blushed and nodded her head.

                "He's just a bit irritable," Flitwick said.

                "He's just got a stick shoved up his – " snapped Sprout. 

                "Now, now Bryony, no need to crass.  Hermione's still eating," interrupted McGonagall.  The whole table laughed at that.  

                "Don't worry dear, there's a whole staff full of people who are more than willing to back you up.  There are some things one must unite against, and Severus' irrational outbursts top that list," said Professor Vector with a warm smile.

                "Venus knows, they happen often enough," commented Sinistra wryly.  

                "Is he…I mean, you don't seem very…friendly towards him," Hermione ventured timidly.  The table broke into smiles again.

                "Oh no, Severus has never been what you would call a friendly person.  He's a good headmaster, in his way.  Just given to the occasional insensible explosion," explained McGonagall.

                "Which we usually whole-heartedly ignore," added Sprout.  Everyone laughed at that, even Hermione.  She was losing some of the reserve, and anxiety, she'd built up on the trip.  A small yawn escaped her – it had been an awfully long day.  

                "It's getting awful late.  I think I'm heading back to the castle now, if anyone would like to join me," offered Bill, standing and stretching lazily.

                "I think I'll take you up on that," responded Vector, also standing.  Hermione nodded her assent as well, grabbing onto her bags.  "Considering the travel you've done today, Hermione, I'm surprised you're still awake this late," remarked the arithmancy professor.  The three left to the sounds of shouted goodbyes from the rest of the table.  Outside, Bill insisted on carrying the bags, and probably would have carried her as well f he'd had the extra arms.  As it was they started up the path towards the castle, which did not seem nearly as long or as dark with the company of the two older professors.

                "Well she's a sweet girl," commented Flitwick as the door swung shut behind Hermione, Bill and Sinistra.  

                "Indeed, that she is," agreed Hagrid, downing his tankard and wiping his beard with the back of one hand.

                "She and Bill Weasley would make a sweet couple, don't you think?" opined Vector thoughtfully.  

                "Dear Circe, Sethunya, she's only arrived an hour ago!" exclaimed McGonagall.

                "Well, Minerva, he is the youngest one in the castle by a long shot.  No offense meant Finnian, Rubeus."

                "None taken, Seth."

                "Honestly Minerva, she's young, needs a bit of fun in her life.  Where else is she going to get it?  Next youngest after Bill is…Severus," threw in Hooch, with an exaggerated shudder.

                There was a collective eye rolling at the table. 

                "Whether she has 'a bit of fun' or not, it'll still be nice to have someone so fresh and young on hand.  I'm beginning to feel moldy myself," laughed Sprout.

                "Indeed.  Let's jus' try and keep 'er out o' Severus' way a' much a' possible.  You saw 'er earlier, nervous up t' here and he weren't even at the table," commented Hagrid.

                "She'll have to face him sometimes unfortunately," responded McGonagall

                "We can do our best to give her a little support, in any case.  At least until she's found her footing here," said Flitwick.

                "She better find it quick then.  Poor thing, not only is she Hermione Granger, not only is she new, but the she's taking over potions too," said Sprout.  There was a moment of silence.  Sethunya Vector shrugged her shoulders.      

                "Well, I think I'm going to follow the good example set by those three and head off to bed."

                "Mind if I join you, Seth?" asked Flitwick.  She smiled, and the two stood.

                "Goodnight, all.  Be seeing you tomorrow."

                "Night.  Remember, one week till students return," called Vector as the door swung closed behind them.

                There was a collective groan from those remaining at the table.  


	2. Not a jury in the world would convict he...

AN: Hello.  Don't know if I bothered with the It's-Not-Mine-It's-JKR's disclaimer before, but I am now.  So there it is.  Also, If I forgot to mention it, this is a post-Voldemort SSxHG fic.  All shall be explained (hopefully) within the story.  Enjoy!

Unlikely is an Understatement 

Chapter 2               

Hermione awoke slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning, stretching luxuriously.  She snuggled down into the covers, still in a blissful sleep-muddled state.  Until she noticed her bed was, in actuality, a couch.

                At this she managed to force herself upright, all remains of sleep dashed from her mind.  Bright morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, illuminating the homey little room.  Everything was a little shabby, but warm, surrounded by the comfortable clutter that she recognized as pervading the room of any single male.  She herself was lying tangled in sheets and blankets on a fairly large couch in the middle of the room.  Upon further inspection she found her clothes were still on, and her shoes lay in a pile beside the couch.  Peering over the back, she could see a door, open, which looked to lead into a proper bedroom, and a tall redhead who was currently walking through it.

                "Morning, Hermione," Bill called, noting the bewildered face peering over his sofa.  Her hair had taken on a life of it's own over the night, curls standing up in spikes all over her head.  She looked as if she'd been mildly electrocuted; very childlike.

                "Morning, Bill," she responded, eyes following him carefully as he came round to sit in the stuffed chair nearby.  "Mind telling me why I'm waking up on your couch?" she asked innocently, eying the steaming mug of something he held.

                "Willow tea, Mum's special.  Would you like a cup?"  he asked, following her gaze.  Hermione nodded gravely.  Usually coffee was her preferred wake up cup, but Molly Weasley's mix smelled phenomenal.  Bill disappeared into his bedroom again, though why he'd keep a kettle brewing in there Hermione couldn't figure out for the life of her.  A few minutes later he returned with a second mug in hand, cream and sugar following in the air behind.  The brew was spicy and alive, nearly as good as caffeine.  Nearly.

                "Well, awful awkward to wake up in here I suppose.  You remember coming here last night?" began Bill.  Hermione shook her head, took another sip of tea.  "Well, we – me, you and Sinistra – walked back up to the castle, rather late last night, after having been at the Jolly Goblin for drinks – "

                "Yes, I remember all this.  We parted at the doors, Sinistra off to her rooms at the Astronomy tower.  You offered to help me find my rooms," Hermione said impatiently.  Bill nodded and smiled at her, took another sip of tea.

                "Right, right.  Well, we walked around aimlessly for a bit, kind of half looking for your rooms.  You'd already started to fade, no doubt the lateness of the hour and the long day catching up with you.  I hit on the idea of going to ask the Headmaster where he'd set you up.  Unfortunately, when we got to his door, it was apparent that he was already asleep, and I was in certainly not going to risk his wrath by waking him up."

                "Well developed sense of self-preservation there, I see."

                "Comes with being a former curse-breaker.  Learn to spot obvious hazards.  Anyway, you'd practically fallen asleep on your feet by the time we'd reached Snape's offices.  So I picked you up, levitated the luggage, and set you up on the couch.  Couldn't have you sleeping on the cold stone floors.  Mum would kill me," Bill finished cheerily, throwing her another bright smile.

                "Well, sounds about right.  Mind if I wash up a bit?"

                "Sure thing.  Bathroom is right through the back, on the left.  Your bags are over there.  Breakfast in the Great Hall ends in about an hour, if you feel up to it."

                "Bill, what time is it?"

                "Around - " and he stared at his watch for a moment, brow furrowed.  Hermione peered over interestedly, always fascinated by the myriad hands of any wizard clock.  "Looks to be about ten o'clock," he finished.   

                "Ten!" she squeaked, and leapt form the couch.  

                "Not a late riser, I take it?"

                "Not at all!" Hermione called as she grabbed her bags and dashed towards the bathroom.

                Ten minutes later found her dressed in clean clothes, hair tamed – somewhat – and walking alongside Bill towards the Great Hall.  Her stomach was growling intermittently, reminding her that she'd eaten next to nothing yesterday.  The smell of food wafted down from the open doors, a heady scent of cinnamon and bacon and -  

                "Mm, steak and eggs.  Brunch is the greatest thing ever invented," commented Bill appreciatively, his eyes happily half closed as he sniffed the air.  Hermione suppressed her giggles as the expression on his face struck her suddenly as similar to the ones Crookshanks would make. 

                The Great Hall was largely as she remembered.  The tables were still in the middle, empty and ghostlike now.  She was tempted to go to her old table, sit in her old seat on the bench; there would be no Harry and Ron across from her though.  Tapestries still hung the walls, and above the ceiling was bright blue with streaks of cotton clouds, as enchanted as it had ever been.  Up on the dais was the head table, currently serving Sunday brunch for a few of the staff.  A queasy twist churned her stomach up as she realized that that was where she would take meals for the next ten months.  Just another reminder of her new status.

                She took an empty seat next to Bill, who was already heaping eggs and meat on his plate with one hand, while another poured orange juice.  It was a talent she'd seen Harry, Ron, and sundry college boyfriends perform.  Hermione was even more surprised to find a plate of bacon and cinnamon buns shoved at her from the redhead's general direction.  

                The smell of cinnamon was incredibly tantalizing, and Hermione dug in with a relish.  Food never tasted as good as it did here.  She didn't notice as teachers filed in and out around her, just dealt out the customary nod when any figure approached and got back to her food.

                Coffee.  The smell of a freshly brewed pot was now winding its way around the table.  Hermione's head shot up.  It was here, somewhere, when it hadn't been just moments ago.  Smelled good.  Dark roast, strongly brewed, maybe Colombian?  She scanned slowly, looking for the source.  Wait, wait, down the table, past Flitwick.  There!

                Hermione was out of her seat and off like a shot.  All higher brain functions had been shut down by the caffeine drive.  Enter disastrous side effects.

                Her hand was on the handle of the cup before she realized what was happening.  Actually, her hand was on top of another hand, which was on the handle.  A long fingered, thin, pale hand.  Said hand belonged to the angry, glittering eyes which were glaring death at her right now.  These eyes also appeared to own a dark, smooth voice which was currently trying to break through the caffeine-need haze in her brain.

                "Miss Granger….Miss Granger!" 

                "Oh.  Um."  She was stalled.  Her brain had finally caught up with her instincts and was slapping them silly.  

                "Not very articulate this morning, are we Miss Granger?" he asked lowly.

                "I lacked my morning coffee, sir," she replied stiffly.  Snape.  She had tried to take Snape's coffee.  Her hand still lay on top of his.  Hermione pulled her hand back in a flash, pulling it safely behind her back.  His still lay wrapped around the mug handle, still as a corpse's.  

                "Well, then.  When you have satisfied your chemical dependency and regained your nominal functionality, I expect to see you in my office," he said smoothly and stood and stalked out in a swirl of black robes.  The cup of coffee left with him.

                "Here you go Hermione, dear," said Professor Sprout cheerily, and shoved a large mug of coffee into her hands.  "Don't mind him.  He's always sour in the mornings.  Sit and chat a moment before you go and face the devil."

                She pulled out a seat for Hermione, between her and Minerva, which the girl gratefully fell into.  Hermione sipped her coffee in silence as the two witches chatted around her.

                "Well, honestly Minerva, I don't think I'm going to have the greenhouses ready come September.  It may have to be field work for the first semester."

                "Honestly, Bryony, if you'd come back from Brazil just a little earlier you wouldn't have such trouble taming the place.  The plants do get into a sulk when you leave."

                "Are you ready for classes, Hermione?" asked Professor Sprout sweetly.

                "Nearly, I did some prep work after I got the letter, but I've only had a week so I haven't quite made it to the spring semester yet Professor Sprout," she responded eagerly.

                "Call me Bryony, dear.  I'm not your professor any more."  

                "Hermione, you might want to get ready for your appointment.  Severus should have calmed down and ingested some civility along with his coffee by now.  He'll be waiting for you, and the longer he waits the more snappish he becomes," said McGonagall.  Hermione nodded and drained the last of her coffee before heading at a brisk walk for the door.  Not a run.  She refused to hurry to accommodate Snape, even against her punctual nature.

                She stopped at the gargoyle that stood guard before what were traditionally the Headmaster's offices and straightened herself up.      

                "You the new girl?"

                Hermione twirled around quickly, wand in hand, in search of the voice.  The gargoyle winked at her.  She had thought it was the same guardian as in her school days, but now wasn't too sure.  

                "He's a nasty one, he is.  What's a slip of a filly like you need to see him for?" it asked cheerily.  Hermione smiled back.

                "I've got a meeting with him, and being late is not an agreeable option.  He didn't give me today's password though," she said uncertainly.  Definitely not the same gargoyle; the former hadn't been quite so talkative.  Perhaps this wasn't the right room after all. 

                "Here love, I'll let you though.  Password's Mortis, in case you need to be back.  He's not as nice as the old man was, but he's fair.  You won't get in trouble if you don't deserve it," he said pleasantly as he rolled back and revealed the stairs.  Hermione thanked him and ascended.

                The office was much as she remembered, covered in books and odd instruments, dominated by the large desk in the center.  Snape was nowhere to be seen, so she busied herself with a shelf of books, reading the faded titles, but not feeling daring enough to touch them.

                 "Find something interesting, Miss Granger?" Snape hissed softly.  She flew around, startled by his sudden, silent appearance.  He glared and then marched to the desk, gesturing curtly towards a chair and waiting for to take it before sitting himself.  For several moments they sat in uncomfortable silence.

                "I think your gargoyle's going senile," Hermione ventured eventually.  A sour, harassed look answered her.  

                "He's a temporary replacement," Snape snapped in a tone that clearly ended the discussion.  Again with the uncomfortable silence.  

                "Well, Miss Granger, I suppose I should welcome you as a teacher to Hogwarts," he said softly.  Little yellow mental lights began to go off in Hermione's head: lecture time.  "You are satisfactorily qualified for the position of Potions professor.  Highly recommended by your professors, experience in the form of an acceptable thesis project, university recognition of your knowledge – overall the expected tenacity with which you cling to your increasingly thin grip on the status of scholar.  An adequate resume.  However, your youth and inexperience in the fields of teaching will prove a serious obstacle that no amount of time in the library will be able to solve for you, Miss Granger," he said, still in that dangerous, soft voice, threaded ever so slightly with malice.  She forcibly restrained herself from leaping over the desk and throttling him then and there.

                "Now, Miss Granger, if you have collected yourself and regained your composure, I'd like to begin the compulsory examination."  She was still goggling at his perceptiveness; she'd thought she'd controlled her anger there masterfully.  The soft thunk of a glass vial hitting the desk redirected her attention again to Snape.  A clear liquid swirled viscously around the bottle as he twirled it between his fingers.  Veritaserum.

                "Compulsory examination, sir?"

                "Yes, Miss Granger.  A short test all new teachers must undergo after their arrival at the castle and before they're permitted to teach.  Open."  She complied automatically, a few slick drops of fluid sliding on her tongue and down her throat.  The barest tingling rippled through her body, so slight she wasn't even sure she'd felt it.  Snape remained looming in front of her, hands and vial tucked neatly behind his back.  A wall of black not a meter from her.

                "Is my name Severus Snape?" he asked abruptly, tones neat and clipped, every word snapped off with perfect diction.  

                "Yes."

                "Were you a former prefect?"

                "Yes, my sixth year."

                "Did you manage to break every rule in the history of Hogwarts within your seven year tenure here?"

                "Not every.  I never went up to the Astronomy tower after hours to snog."  The words spilled out of her before she knew what she was saying, much less try to control it.

                "Indeed.  I wouldn't have expected it of you.  Now, did you steal ingredients from my stores when you were a second year?"

                "Yes, for the polyjuice potion.  How did you know?"

                "I've suspected it ever since you spent a week in the infirmary waiting for the fur to disappear.  Now, did Harry Potter or Ronald Weasley make any malevolent comments about my personality, appearance, or parentage?"

                "Of course, you know they did.  You acted like a bloody bastard towards them, especially Harry."  Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth and groaned.

                "You've obviously not spent much time under the effect of Veritaserum, Miss Granger, if your control is this shoddy.  Now onto the real test.  Are you Miss Hermione Maureen Granger?"

                "Yes, obviously you twit."

                "I'm going to ignore any colorful statements, for your sake.  Are you Miss Hermione Maureen Granger inn mind?"

                "Yes."

                "In body?"

                "Yes."

                "In soul?"

                "Yes."

                "Do you, Miss Hermione Maureen Granger, have any plans to cause physical, mental, and/or spiritual misery, pain, and/or death to any of the teachers and/or students, current and/or incoming?"

                "No, of course not!"

                "Calm, yourself Miss Granger.  Do you know of any plans whether recent, past, or forthcoming to cause physical, mental, and/or spiritual misery, pain, and/or death to any of the teachers and/or students, current and/or incoming?"

                "No, sir!  Certainly not!"

                "I asked you to restrain your passion.  Now, do you have any fears of danger to your health, life, sanity and/or safety from another party?"

                "Yes."

                "From whom?"

                "Former Death Eaters who were not caught, supporters of the Dark who weren't uncovered, lunatics."

                "Is there anyone else you fear?"

                "You."  This last very quietly.

                "I'm sorry, that last question was poorly worded.  I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me as long as you prove yourself to be a competent professor."

                "We'll see, sir."  

                "Indeed.  Moving on, then.  Will these fears for your health, safety, sanity and/or life impact your ability to teach?"

                "No, they're mostly dormant.  I know better than to fear this.  It's only nightmare fodder."

                "Very well, Miss Granger.  Our compulsory test is at an end.  The veritaserum will remain in your system for another half an hour or so.  I would suggest avoiding extended conversations with anyone, as you have very poor control over the content of your answers as well as the length of them."  He turned and moved back to sit behind the desk, elbows on the top, hands peaked in front of him.  "For now, if you wish, you may express any questions you may have about the position, the castle, or your responsibilities.  For it is, Miss Granger, a heavy responsibility."

                "I would like to know, sir, the origin of this compulsory test.  I hadn't thought it was a regular requirement of accepted teachers.  I rather think there wouldn't have been quite so many instances of hiring Dark-inclined, or just plain incompetent teachers," she bubbled eagerly.

                "Indeed.  It was not a requirement of accepted teachers.  It is my own institution as Headmaster, for those reasons you just expressed.  Albus often seemed to forget that not everyone had his particular gift for perception, or his unceasing faith in Mister Potter," Snape replied smoothly, lacing his long fingers together.

                "Dumbledore deserves more credit than that, as does Harry, Professor Snape.  True, some of his choices for professor have been alarming, most notably Lockhart.  And really I would have expected him to take action against Quirrell-Voldemort himself.  But I always have respected him and his methods, despite the foggy choices he's made for his staff," she spilled hurriedly, not sure whether it was a burden or a relief to have told someone this.

                "Do drop the Professor.  I really am not your teacher anymore.  In response, I agree Miss Granger.  He's a man to be respected and whose motives and plans we could not possibly have understood.  You and Bill Weasley were his last request for professors before retiring.  I see you as equally an ominous choice as any he has made in the past," Snape said, smirking ever so slightly as Hermione's expression changed from carefully neutral to apoplectic.  

                "I assure you, your appointment as Headmaster is equally unfathomable and unpromising," Hermione bit out.  

                "Now, Miss Granger, all arguing aside.  There are several matters that must be taken care of," he said, again in those clipped and even tones.  Snape stood and nodded for Hermione to follow suit.  HE ushered her towards the door as he spoke.  "As you received your position just a little time ago, in which I am sure you were unable to prepare your syllabus for the year, I left you copies of the class curriculum for every year.  You will find them on the desk.  I expect you to familiarize yourself adequately with them in time for classes to start and hopefully as the year progresses you will be able to create your own coursework."  Hermione turned around, face quickly growing red.

                "What?  You pompous bastard!  I am perfectly capable of creating my own curriculum and teaching it, though I am sure it will be of no standard to your own flawless potions classes," she growled, just keeping herself from shouting at him.

                "I expect that you're still well under the influence of the veritaserum, and shall let that pass.  For now.  It was very unwise to let your emotions bubble over like that while under the influence of a truth potion.  Now, I was only going to remind you that all supplies for the start of term must be ordered by next Thursday.  I suppose you can manage that yourself as well.  Good day, Miss Granger," he said with a slight snarl before shutting the door on her.  Hermione remained on the landing there for several minutes, fuming over the arrogance and humiliation she had just been treated to.  A good hot shower and a nap would be just the things to calm her down now.  Only, she had no rooms in which to shower and nap.  Oh, bother.  And she knocked on the door.

                "Yes, Miss Granger?" Snape hissed, holding the door just barely open in order to be able to see her.  

                "You neglected to assign me rooms.  I had to spend last night on Bill's couch, and would rather not repeat it," she said icily.  He merely sighed and stalked back into the room, returning moments later with a piece of paper.

                "A map.  Your rooms are in the dungeons, near the potions classroom.  In fact there is access through your office to your rooms.  The current password is Belladonna.  I've also written the key for changing it here.  Now go.  And I expect you to follow a more professional and decently moral standard of living while students are here.  If Bill Weasley wants you spending the nights in his rooms he can marry you properly, but the least he could have done last night was have you in his bed," he said exasperatedly, and shut the door with a thunk.  Hermione was left gaping on the landing, tolerably certain that she would not survive the year without murdering Severus Snape.   


	3. Voyeurism? Or just bad luck?

AN:  Back again, this time with a mere interlude to intrigue you.  Excuse the fact that this is so short.  It's merely a bridge unto a greater chapter and further plot points.  

And if this grammar has offended, 

Think but this and all is mended:

That there is no beta here, 

To this author's hasty typing clear.  

Give us your ears if we be friends, 

And the content shall make amends.

(Puck, forgive me.)

Chapter 3

                "Belladonna!"

Hermione shouted at the wall where her door should have been.  What she needed right now was a very hot shower, a cozy couch corner to curl up in, and a good book to curl up with.  What she did not need was a malfunctioning door, which would lead to another encounter with the headmaster.  Considering the fact that he had given her what had to be his old rooms, she wasn't sure she would be able to look at him without screaming.  The dungeons.  For a Gryffindor.  Honestly.  She took her wand out and pointed it at the wall.

"Belladonna!"

Slowly, almost grumpily, the wall rippled and an arch opened in it.  Hermione glared at it before swishing imperiously down the opened hall into her rooms.  It was rather like having a flat all of her own; a flat with a perpetual draft and cold stone floors.  The dungeon was the expected gothic arched doorways and high skylights, and everything bordered by intricate stonework; snakes curled around the half-columns, but she was surprised by the pair of stone lions guarding the fireplace.  The furnishings were quite different from their setting though.  Comfortable couches and chairs, their threadbare upholstery in a rainbow of faded colors, were scattered around the room.  A carpet in similar condition lay before the fireplace.  But the crowning piece, at least in Hermione's eyes, were the floor to ceiling wooden bookshelves that covered the wall on each side of the fireplace.  She was determined to fill them as quickly as possible.  

Through the door into the bedroom, where there was much of the same.  Another magnificent fireplace, again with its guardian lions, was against the far wall.  Before it was a large bed.  Well, a large futon.  She raised her eyebrows at that and headed to the door that must lead to the bathroom.  No, a walk in closet.  Another surprise in the rooms of such a wizard-bred man.  Ah, that's the bathroom door.  She shut it behind her, staring at the large whole in the floor, which some might call tub, that greeted her.  Wizards were not showering people, she remembered belatedly.  For a second she longed for her bathroom back home, before remembering the wonders of a Hogwarts bath.  Further inspection found towels and other necessities in the chest along the wall – seems Snape had been inclined towards self-sufficiency.

An hour in a hot tub was all she needed to calm her nerves and unravel the tense spots in her neck.  She had managed to keep herself occupied with thoughts of her new home, the books she would buy, the upcoming term, while carefully blocking everything Snape related.  It would be rather odd to think of Snape while in the bathtub; the connotations of that stray notion made her shudder and grimace.  Hermione dragged herself out of the tub regretfully and wrapped herself in a large fluffy towel.  

It was about this time that she remembered her bags were still in Bill's room.  

Panic mode was quickly approaching.  Wander around the castle in a towel and search for Bill's room?  Not bloody likely as long as Snape and his keen sense of poor timing were anywhere within two miles.  Put on dirty clothes – ew! – and search for Bill's room?  The pile of clothing in the corner did not look at all appealing to her highly developed sense of hygiene.  Ah, minimize embarrassment - and stay in own rooms – by calling Bill on the Floo?  Perfect.  Hermione wandered into the bedroom, searching for anything that might resemble a Floo reserve.  There, on the mantelpiece, the little stone bowl.  Perfect.  

"Bill Weasley," Hermione called as she threw it into the dead fireplace.  Green flames spurted up, and after a moment a head appeared in the fireplace.

Snape's head.  

Any shock he may have registered at seeing Hermione in a towel was effectively hidden from his face by the overpowering sneer.  Hermione's shock was quite apparent in the fiery red blush covering her cheeks.  Thankfully, she had enough presence of mind not to let go of the towel.

"Is there a reason, Miss Granger, why you felt the need to call me in your present state of undress?"  Snape asked coldly.  If possible, her blush grew.

"I – I was calling for Bill's rooms," she stammered out.  The disembodied head rolled its eyes and gave a much put-upon sigh.

"Did not mention just an hour or two earlier to you that your pursuance of these…activities with Mr. Weasley were to be conducted in a professional and, more importantly, decent manner?" he asked huffily.

"Sir, I would rather not involve you in this, but my luggage was left in Bill's rooms, which I had forgotten until after my bath.  Now, please would you end this exchange and allow me to try and contact him again," she snapped, exasperated, and ran a hand through her wet, tangled hair, letting the towel slip just a bit.

"I'm afraid that will be impossible Miss Granger, as the fireplace in your bedroom connects solely to the Headmaster's."  He closed his eyes wearily, and for the barest of moments she thought she saw something pass over his face – a flicker of…pain? – before he continued.  "I will have the house elves collect your bags directly.  They will most likely leave them at your door.  I suggest you not try to call anyone else currently, or leave the rooms.  Furthermore, Miss Granger, I strongly recommend that you never operate this Floo connection again.  Not unless it is in the strictest of dire emergencies."  This last gruffly and harsh before he abruptly cancelled the connection.

The warmth in the air and bright sunny quality of the day picked Hermione's heart up as soon as she set foot on the grounds.  Dressed now in simple jeans and a shirt, the entire morning banished from her mind, Hermione Granger was prepared to make the most of a gorgeous day.  She had her folder of class notes, a list of stores to order, and – grudgingly – the folder containing Snape's curriculums.  Now, all that was left to find was a nice tree or patch of grass.

A moment of wandering and she had sighted a tree, just by the water's edge with a fine sward of green grass running underneath it.  She settled herself, spread out her papers (magically charmed not to blow away) and began working.  When Hermione finally noticed the shadow falling over her work, she had lost all concept of time.  It was Bill Weasley, standing in front of a lovely afternoon sun, with his own folder of work.  

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all."  And she cleared a space of her papers.  Bill gratefully took the seat offered and spread out his own mess of notes.  

"Class schedules?"  he asked, conversationally.

"Yeah.  I've got some of them done, but what with the short notice, I'm finding it hard to cover it all.  Potions would be a required course," she replied exhaustedly, brushing her hair away absentmindedly.  He smiled at the thoughtless gesture.  "Snape did leave me his old curriculums, but I really want to prove I can do this on my own," she finished, and tossed the offending paper down with a sigh.

"Well, he did teach it for – how many years?  Nearly twenty I'd think.  Might be a good idea to take a look at how he laid things out.  Just to get a handle on it in the next few weeks."  The last he added hastily as she shot him a look that dared him to challenge her competency again.  Bill tried to shake it off and smiled disarmingly at her.  Change of subject time.

"So, you going to come visit with us for the winter hols?  What with me being here, Mum will certainly expect you to stop in at least once."

"Of course I'll visit.  Weasley might as well be my last name.  You're my surrogate wizarding family," she replied with a warm smile.  "Besides, wouldn't want to miss meeting Ron's new girlfriend." 

"Oh, Merlin.  I imagine she'll be another beast.  He has the worst taste in girls," Bill groaned, collapsing back against the tree.  

"Maybe, it's time for you to give him some brotherly advice, then."

"Nah, let him muddle through on his own.  Be good for the boy."  With that last Bill crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.  The setting sun touched his hair, setting it ablaze in a fiery halo, and softened his features.  

"Don't go getting to comfortable there, it's practically dinner time," Hermione laughed, and began gathering her papers.  With everything safely tucked away, Bill leapt up and offered a hand to a smiling Hermione.  They walked together to the castle, bathed in the dying rays of sunlight.

It wasn't enough that she had to impose herself so powerfully on him all day, but she let his warnings against socialization with Weasley go unheeded.  Snape turned away from his window as the pair entered the castle.  Dinner in the Great Hall suddenly was not so appealing to him.  Hastily he stepped through his office, back into the lab off his rooms.  

The little room was gloomy, filled with the sound of softly burbling liquids and the hiss of the burners.  A medium sized cauldron was smoking gently on the table, the vapors pouring over the rim in a waterfall of blue and green.  Snape waved his wand at it absently, the flame dropping to little more than the tiniest flash while the torrents of smoke eased off.  

Upon taking the headmaster position, he had immediately installed the little laboratory, even before unpacking his things.  It provided false comfort, a carefully recreated dungeon that almost let him think he was still just a Potions Master.  Today he slumped down on the one old, wooden stool in the room and cradled his head in his hands.

Becoming headmaster had invariably resulted in ten-fold more headaches than normal, and today's looked to be going for the prize.  Not only did he have the million and a half nagging petty issues to take care of before term started, but he also had two new rogue Gryffindors on the staff, neither of which he had wanted to hire.  Weasley wouldn't be much trouble, and, Snape grudgingly admitted, certainly was qualified as a defense teacher.  Granger, though, had absolutely no qualifications as a teacher, and was already proving to be more trying than she was as a student.  One hand reached up into the shelf behind him, caressing, counting beakers until he came to the headache relief potion.  Snape downed it in go, grimacing at the rancid, acidic taste.

Though the pain had cleared, he had no desire to leave his sanctuary.  The desk had already been full of unopened letters, and the owls brought more every minute.  Whining parents of every kind had buried him in a blizzard of owls since he'd taken the position.  Mountains of inane questions and complaints that he didn't have the time or patience to answer.  Sneering, Snape sifted through the newest layer of paper, tossing complaints into the basket, suggestions into the baskets, and Howler's into a far corner of the room that was already black from explosions.  A large blue envelope – unstamped, unsealed, and unmarked – was soon revealed.  He picked it up carefully, fearing a new kind of Howler.  

As soon as he touched it, it began to vibrate.  He was swinging his arm around to chuck it into the detonation corner when it stopped abruptly and unfolded itself.  The letter it contained fell out onto the carpet.  Mystified, he retrieved it, while the envelope folded itself up into what was, for all intents and purposes, a small paper cat.  Snape scanned the paper, and stood, lost in thought for a moment, before incinerating the note.  His eyes fell to the tiny cat that was prowling around his feet.

"Must you always advertise yourself to the world," he murmured softly, kneeling down to allow the animal to pad onto his palm.  "Clever trick, but a colossal waste of energy."  And he let the cat walk off onto his mantle piece where it prowled around before settling down.  

"I suppose I'll now be obliged to attend dinner tonight                                                                                                   


	4. Slytherin Doppelganger

AN:  Ahhh, a slightly longer chapter for your literary pleasure.  Sorry about the lessened Snape-Hermione interaction in this one.  There is an OC, and this was basically an intro for them.  I promise a greater SS/HG element in the next one.

Unlikely is an Understatement

Chapter 4   

Dinner had been as dinner at Hogwarts had always been:  tailored to the diner and encouraging of seconds.  Hermione was relishing her return to the candlelit hall and changing ceiling, not to mention the fabulous roast beef.  Conversation had been amiable, and the banter between professors was endlessly amusing.  How had she missed all of this in her student days?  How could she have thought them stiff, or silly, or austere?  Well, Trelawney had always been a caricature of silly.  And Snape, he had always been the epitome of cynicism.  She took a thoughtful bite of roast beef, and nodded vaguely at one of McGongall's comments.  Snape, indeed, was still as nasty and sarcastic and spiteful and – speak of the devil.        

He stalked into the hall, cape billowing behind him melodramatically, and took his place at the head of the table with nary a word or a glance to anyone.  Most of the staff barely spared him a glare, and turned back to their dinners.  Hermione caught Bill's eyes across the table, and stifled her laughter.  Conversation slowly died around the table; those professors who stood to leave were hastily cowed back into their seats.

                When the door opened at the far end of the Great Hall, it did not fly ajar on its hinges on a gust of a foreboding wind.  Nor did the candles sizzle and pop out of existence.  And the windows steadfastly refused to shatter and rattle ominously.  Instead the door edged open somewhat meekly – which, in hindsight, should have been a dead giveaway – and revealed a woman and two luggage.  Without announcement she walked up sedately up to the dais; her bags grew legs and followed at a respectable distance.

She was a small woman, standing barely five foot two, but was by no means slight.  Even more impressive than her curves – deliberately emphasized by tight muggle jeans and top – was the power radiating off her in waves.  A small smile played across her lips (made up in bright red lipstick) that reached entirely up into her green eyes and set them sparkling.

"May I introduce Miss Wreneth Proctor," Snape said smoothly, standing and extending a hand to the lady across the table.  She clasped it firmly and smiled again at him while her eyes darted around the table.  Hermione stared unabashedly.

"Miss Proctor will be the new Muggle Studies professor here.  I'm sure she will be most heartily welcomed.  I am certainly most pleased at her acceptance of the position," Snape murmured, as he glided around the edge of the table to lead her to her seat.  Placed a chaste kiss to the hand he was still holding.  Bowed.  Then excused himself, and in a billow of black robes was gone from the Great Hall.

Wreneth sat quietly, and bravely faced a table full of shocked Professors.  Sprout looked wryly amused, and was sharing looks with Hooch next to her.  Flitwick was blinking rapidly, while McGonagall looked as though she was going to have kittens.  Bill was laughing at the expression on Hermione's face, which resembled that of a frog.

"Welcome, Miss Proctor, it's good to see you here again," Minerva finally said, a bit curtly.  At this the table broke into welcomes and chatter as professors reached around to shake hands and welcome the young woman.  Hermione murmured a hello and turned back to her food, finishing quickly and curtly excusing herself.  She did not notice the pair of green eyes that followed her exit intently.

She had headed immediately to her rooms, her steps echoing angrily in the halls.  That girl was bothering her, nudging at her mind.  She knew she'd heard the name before, but couldn't place it for the life of her.  Arriving at her door, or rather, wall, she realized that she hadn't changed the password.  Performing the incantation cleared her head, calmed her down, and nearly buried her irrational anger at Snape and jealousy of the New Girl.

"Desumo Mnemosyne!" she finished, and directed her wand at the wall.  It stubbornly refused to react under the jet of white sparks issued at it.  Despite it's lack of facial features, the wall gave off an overwhelming air of smirking.  Hermione stamped her foot and glared at it.

"Desumo Mnemosyne!"

"MNEMOSYNE!"

She stood, breathing heavily, wand out and quivering as she glared at the stones.  If it had been possible, the wall would have been giggling and blowing raspberries at her.  Hermione had plagued by Snape that entire day, and was determined not to be bested by a wall that had adopted his personality.  She steeled herself for a final attempt.  Deep breath.  Arm rose high over her head, ready to come down in a  furious display of power.

"DIS – "

"Hermione, it might be best not to pull the wall to pieces.  It most certainly will hold a grudge then.  And I don't think you want to have to enter your quarters through the windows," McGonagall said calmly from behind Hermione.  The girl whirled around, wall forgotten for the moment.

"Honestly, is sneaking up on people silently a requirement for teachers?" she snapped, before regaining her composure.  McGonagall merely smiled at her dryly before addressing the wall.

"Mnemosyne.  And you'd better behave yourself for Miss Granger, for your own safety.  Not even Severus ever tried to pull you to pieces," she snapped at the wall, waiting as it rippled into the arched tunnel with a distinctly contrite air.  "Cheeky thing.  Mustn't let it walk all over you.  Now, I was looking to invite you for a cup of tea, but as we're so far from the tower I suppose it's a wasted effort," she continued in her usual crisp tones.  

"Well, I could do with a cuppa, and it would be a nice way to inaugurate my new home.  Not to mention a very small thank you for the help with the wall.  Come on in, Professor," she invited, and began to walk down the hallway.  

"Please call me Minerva, Hermione."

Some moments later the two women were sitting before a crackling fireplace, cupping large mugs of tea.  McGonagall unwound enough to relax her posture ever so slightly, while Hermione curled up onto her chair.  

"I noticed you seemed very put out at dinner Hermione.  Your exit was almost unseemly in its abruptness," McGonagall, never one for subtlety, began.  "I was wondering if it had anything to do with the arrival of Miss Proctor."  At this she gave Hermione a hard look over the tops of her spectacles.  The girl had begun blushing ever so slightly, and was studying her tea intently.  "Or, rather, Severus' treatment of the girl."  Right in one, she thought, as Hermione's face went scarlet.

"I – well.  I mean – "

"No need to explain, Hermione.  His actions were highly uncharacteristic for Severus Snape, and a shock to the entire table.  Not least of all to you I suspect.  He does seem to enjoy making others miserable.  Rather, other Gryffindors miserable," McGonagall bit off acidly.  Hermione stared at her quizzically.  "Oh, think on it girl.  He knew it would hurt you to see how warmly he welcomed the other new teacher.  The new teacher of his choice.  Severus Snape is, if nothing else, terribly good at punishment."  McGonagall took a deep sip of her tea and stared at the younger witch across from her, waiting on the eye contact.

"Why?" she asked heatedly, her banked fury at the headmaster rising again to a slow burn.

"Which why, Hermione?"

"Why his choice?  Why the punishment?  I've done nothing to the man except accept the position _he offered to me_," she bit out, tea forgotten as she latched onto the conversation with her typical tenacity.

"Now, Hermione, there's no need for adolescent italicization.  Wreneth Proctor is the only one of the new teachers – being you and Mr. Weasley – that Severus hired to teach.  Dumbledore requested that Mr. Weasley be brought in, as he was both well qualified for the position and an excellent wizard to have around for protection purposes.  Albus knew his influence on the school's safety, and was rather afraid that Severus, powerful as he is, would not have the same kind of reputation.  And you.  Albus explicitly stated that you must be offered the potions position.  He gave no reasons, except for your excellent qualifications, and would brook no objection.  So, grudgingly, Severus offered two of the new teaching positions to two Gryffindor favorites."

"The punishment comes simply form the fact that he was overruled by Albus yet again.  Severus loves the man dearly, but takes his cheerful requests bitterly.  I imagine he felt rather threatened, that his first act as Headmaster was being determined by Albus.  Not to mention he connects you rather strongly with Messrs. Potter and Weasley; the three of you were the bane of his existence for seven years.  That, and he wanted Wreneth for the potions position," McGonagall finished, and took another sip of her tea, studying the rather interesting fight between shock and fury on her face.  Fury won.

"Bloody git!  I can't believe he would hold six years of adolescence against me as a personal grudge," she fumed.

"Seven years.  And please, he is your contemporary.  No need for boorish insults.  You are better than that," the older witch said smartly, replying automatically in teacher-mode.

"Seven years.  Three years ago really."  Hermione remembered to sip at her tea, staring contemplatively into the fire.  "Wreneth Proctor…I know I've heard the name before, but I can't place it."

"Ah, indeed.  I would expect you'd have heard it before, though not as often as if you'd been in another house."  Hermione's ears perked up at this, and she shifted eagerly towards McGonagall, eyes alight with curiosity.  "Ah, settle yourself girl.  You'll learn all in a minute.  As curious as ever, I see.  Well, nothing less than to tell you about it.  You know, of course, that your first year here was the first year in seven in which Slytherin did not win the Cup?"  Hermione nodded.  "Well, consider this, Hermione.  Miss Proctor was to Slytherin, what you were to Gryffindor."  McGonagall paused a moment, letting the information sink in.  

"She's a Slytherin?  So that's part of why he's so fond of her then?"

"Right in one, Hermione.  Wreneth Proctor came here starting in her second year.  She was, rather surprisingly, sorted into Slytherin.  Given the house's usual selection, Severus was ecstatic to have her.  Not only not a Death-Eater-In-Training, but also brilliant.  And in Potions no less.  She became an instant favorite, and considering how well she survived in her house, commanded a lot of respect and fear."

"So she's really a Slytherin me.  Though I don't think I commanded fear," Hermione said reflectively.  She was lingering over the idea of an ecstatic Snape, and could not possibly conjure up an acceptable mental image.

"Indeed.  Head girl in her day.  I believe your NEWTS and OWLS may have outstripped hers, but not by much.  Malachi Underwood was in the same year as her; Slytherin keeper – Quidditch prodigy – as well as intelligent in his own right.  Between the two of them, Slytherin was guaranteed the cup every year," Minerva grumbled, obviously still smarting from six years of loss over ten years ago.

"Until Harry came to the school.  Then Gryffindor won seven straight."

"And have lost the last three to Ravenclaw since.  Mr. Potter always was excellent for a show of Gryffindor courage.  And invaluable as a seeker, another prodigy.  However, as handy as he was for defeating evil, he did lose Gryffindor a tremendous amount of points through his escapades."

"He earned points to.  Dumbledore always seemed to have a soft spot for his victories," Hermione grinned and took another sip of her tea.  The fire was dying slowly, casting the room in a deep red glow.  Minerva grimaced.

"Yes, well, he did indulge the boy.  Made me a little tetchy to see the unswerving faith in Mr. Potter.  I was almost ready to side with Severus, though I'd never tell him that."  She crinkled her nose up and straightened her glasses primly.  The firelight made her look so much more human.  And so much older.    

"Well, it's certainly getting late, and our teas are well gone, or cold."  McGonagall stood, leaving her mug on the table, waiting as Hermione unfolded herself from the chair. 

"I'm glad you came around.  I was in need of a confiding ear.  Or rather, an explanatory one."

"Hmm, I'd thought as much.  It's a skill you learn as a teacher.  Goodnight Hermione."

"Goodnight…Minerva."

                Morning sun slanted through the high skylights, falling across Hermione's eyes.  She stirred slowly, grimacing at the brightness.  Rolling over, she clutched the sheets to her and stretched.  The bed was nice and big, perfect really, and she sighed in contentment before crawling over to the edge to retrieve her wand.  A murmured summoning spell brought her muggle watch over to the bed.  It was small and silver, with delicate little hands and traditional numbers, and she much preferred it to the ornate, confusing wizarding variety.

                "Eleven o'clock!!!"

                She sat bolt upright, hair frizzing around her head in a mad halo.  Ten minutes and a quick cleaning charm (bless the wizard who invented it!), Hermione was racing out the door with her folders of class schedules, headed for the library.  

                It was as she remembered it, dim and cool and reeking of books old and new.  Madame Pince still stood at the front desk, and gifted Hermione with a rare smile.  She returned it before sneaking back away into the depths of the room, off hunting for her favorite table.  For seven years she'd secluded herself way off in the back of the library at a table between the start of the history section and the end of the potions, with a floor to ceiling window overlooking the lake.  The library at university had nothing nearly so beautiful or so comforting.  Hermione relaxed as she approached "her" table, only to find it occupied. 

                Wreneth Proctor was sitting there, focused intently on a manuscript.  Several other books lay scattered about; a few potions texts, a muggle chemistry book, and the 1998 Hogwarts yearbook.  Hermione cleared her throat gently, startling the woman out of her reading.

                "Hermione Granger!  Was wondering when I'd get a chance to talk to you.  Didn't get the chance at dinner last night.  Kind of overwhelmed," she said brightly, offering a hand which Hermione took hesitantly.  "Take a seat.  I was just reading up on you."  She gestured to the yearbook, as Hermione settled herself.  She glanced over at the parchment lying on the table.

                "That's my university thesis!"  

                "Ah yeah.  McGonagall cornered me this morning for a chat.  Said it would be worth my while to read it, take a look at your basic info, talk with you sometime.  I swear that woman has a wicked sixth sense for these things."  The woman talked a mile a minute, hands flashing as she gestured along with her words.  Hermione was more than a little shell-shocked, nodding along as she watched her.  "So, I've been reading up on you all morning, and after the talk with McGonagall, well, we're kind of scarily similar.  Just in different houses.  And ten years apart.  And well, we'd certainly never pass for twins, but you get the idea."

                "You're not English, are you?" said Hermione, more than a bit shell-shocked by the rapid-fire conversation.

                 "Oh no.  I'm American."

                "Ah.  But you came to Hogwarts?"

                "Yeah.  My dad was an ambassador to the English Ministry of Magic.  The whole family up and moved here when I was twelve.  Dad wanted me magically educated, and Hogwarts was by far the best option in Europe.  Mom was a little miffed.  Said they didn't teach enough synthesis magic here, but I got plenty of that at college later, so it all worked out.

                "Looks like you went to an American college too.  Or you're leaps and bounds ahead of British magic."  She tapped meaningfully at the manuscript.  "Had to find a few potions texts to be able to understand it.  Very impressive.  Snape was doing right by the school when he appointed you.  Though I doubt he'll admit it, considering he'd rather eat nails than praise a Gryffindor," Wreneth said cheekily, green eyes ablaze with light and merriment.  She has possibly the most expressive eyes I've ever seen, thought Hermione idly.

                "No, I didn't go to an American university.  There's a very small, potions specific, university in Ireland that I went to," Hermione answered, crinkling her nose up at the implications.  Wreneth smiled and pushed the books away, leaning across the table towards Hermione with a friendly smile on her face.

                "Irish Alchemical?  My dad suggested that.  He's very much a fan of foreign schooling.  But then again, I'd spent most of my time at Hogwarts, so Salem practically was foreign."  Hermione smiled at her, surprised and pleased.

                "It was a good school.  Had a good deal of synthesis study.  I loved it.  You said Salem?  Salem Institute of Magic?" Hermione asked.  

                "The one and only.  Awful close to the ancestral home – my Dad's family's been based in Salem since the witch trial incidents.  Matter of family pride that we have traditional wizarding roots, as opposed to say, New Age West Coast roots.  But anyways, loved going back to America for college.  It was good to get back among the Muggles.  And of course the theoretical magics," she chattered, and reached for the copy of Hermione's thesis.  "Now in your thesis, I saw you referenced some of my research, the one about sleep potions and chemical inducement in the brain.  Well, my research on the main project isn't quite finished yet, and considering the connections you're making here," she said intently and flipped the pages, jabbing at paragraphs.  "And here.  And here, too.  I'm thinking that if the two of us worked together, we could get past the block I reached.  What'd you say?" she asked, grinning.  Hermione couldn't help but smile back as she clasped the hand extended towards her.               


	5. Twelve isn't such a lot

AN:  Well, back again after a bit of an absence.  RL stepped in and took me out for a bit, but I rather liked this chapter, and so I've been wanting to get it out.  Nothing new here, some more snarly SS-HG interactions.  Furtherance of something will come later it might be plot, not sure yet

Unlikely Is An Understatement 

Chapter 5

The rest of the week flew by, and before she knew it, Hermione was seated at the high table, watching as the new first years were sorted.  Wren sat to one side of her, industriously reading come research notes underneath the table, while Bill sat to the other, watching idly as the children were sorted.  The dynamic had changed greatly in the hall since she'd last sat here, due in no small part she was sure to the final collapse of the Dark forces.  

                Slytherin table in particular was looking a little gaunt, its ranks of older students thinned by no small amount.  The younger set though seemed a little brighter, a little healthier, a little more normal than she had ever remembered.  Gryffindor was the same as ever, full to bursting with raucous, cheerful children of all ages.  Ravenclaw, quiet and intense, and Hufflepuff cheerful and bright – if slightly vacant, she admitted to herself.   The whole hall, though, was lighter.  Was warmer.  Was more joyous than ever, despite the fact that Headmaster Snape now presided over the hall, and was currently handing out sneers to anyone who caught his eye.  Hermione smiled to herself and turned back to whisper to Wren.

                Severus Snape, meanwhile, could concentrate on neither smiles nor food.  It took all his energy to restrain himself from stalking out of the Great Hall.  Sickening gold dishware, sickening loud children, sickening Gryffindor teachers.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Minerva smiling smugly at each new Gryffindor as she read the list, Bill Weasley staring vacantly at the ceiling, and rather unfortunately for his eyes, Miss Granger, who was whispering intently with Wreneth Proctor.  He sighed in annoyance, cursing all fertility gods he could think of; this year's slew of incoming students had been nearly twice as large as usual.  Ah, the sorting was finally finished.  Time for the compulsory words of foolishness and wit that so delighted the (literally, in most cases) unwashed masses seated before him.  He swore to himself now that, no matter how senile or deranged he might become, he would never, ever begin his speeches with nonsense words.  Sighing melodramatically, he stood, and was more than a bit smug when the hall quieted _instantly_.  

                "Welcome," he drawled softly, letting it carry out over the dead silent hall.  Every eye was fixed on the tall black form at the head table.  "Tomorrow another year will begin, and education will be thrust upon you by your professors, as you will thrust headaches upon them.  Hopefully," and he rolled it out with an overwhelmingly cynical sneer, "some of you will leave in June with a little more _sense_, a little more _intelligence_, than you came in with."  The unspoken, sardonic 'though I doubt it' was painfully clear to even the first years.  Older students – and not just the Slytherins – were starting to grin predatorily now at the younger ones, who looked as though they might cry.  Adolescent class enmity runs deeper than House loyalty.  

"Before you tempt indigestion, focus your attention long enough to absorb some of the customary warnings.  Do not go into the Forbidden Forest.  I am not Dumbledore, and will not wink and ignore juvenile and dangerous exploits.  You do not want to test me on this.  Furthermore, Mr. Filch would like you to be reminded that magic is not to be used in the halls, though I know for certain this is a vain request.  Finally, keep yourselves out of my offices," Snape warned them darkly.  He let his glare travel around the Great Hall, over the quaking Hufflepuffs, the bored Ravenclaws, the stony Gryffindors, and – the moment he'd been waiting for, for nearly twenty years – the wary Slytherins.  A final flick of the glare towards Miss Granger, whose face hardened instantly, and he almost smirked. "For any other information, contact your head of House.  Now I would be pleased to introduce your new Muggle Studies teacher, Miss Wreneth Proctor," Snape said warmly, nodding as she stood and smiled at the students. "The annual new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mr. William Weasley." He also stood and smiled, and accepted the respectful nod from the headmaster.  "And the potions instructor, Hermione Granger," he bit off in a bored tone, and called the food up before she had stood.  Hermione smiled forcedly at the students, and dug her nails into her palms, imagining that they were the Headmaster's throat instead.  The students didn't notice or care, as plates and plates of delicious smelling fodder had appeared onto the tables before them.  

"Don't mind him.  Your anger only satisfies him more.  Bastard," Wreneth whispered, and squeezed Hermione's shoulder as she reached for the rolls.  Hermione chanced a glance down the table at the Snape, startled to find that he was looking at her and, oh yes, most definitely was smirking like the cat who'd eaten the canary.  Her face colored swiftly and she tensed, which only seemed to amuse him more.  On final condescending sneer and he turned back to his food.  

Snape ate as swiftly and sparingly as ever, barely touching the heaping platters of food.  Far too quickly he was finished, left brooding in his chair and fondling his goblet, while professors and students alike industriously dug into their dinner.  It was, in his opinion, far too long before everyone looked sated.  Students were excused, and he was out the door in the back before the first Hufflepuff had made the doors.  A few moments more and he was in his office and practically running for his potions closet.

He'd thought he'd reached the limit of his revulsion by students – and might as well add former students into the mix as well.  Apparently, he had previously undiscovered depths of hatred that the role of Headmaster would force him to plumb.  Sighing, he locked the door of the closet behind him, and dropped again onto the rickety stool.  The tiny lab was comforting.  Snape wouldn't admit under torture to needing a security blanket, but he did spend an awful lot of time locked in the little closet. 

Tonight though, it was necessary.  Classes, real classes, started tomorrow.  And for the first time in, oh, nearly twenty years (twenty?  Had it really been that long?), he would not be teaching.  Would not deliver his (classic) first year speech, nor give the seventh year slacking warning, nor deduct house points from Gryffindors for breathing.  Instead he would wait patiently in his office for students to be sent there.  Wait patiently.  Wait.  All day.  It would be wonderful.  The desire to throttle Albus was only overcome by the desire not to die at Minerva's hands.  Ah, in addition to the waiting there would be dealing with faculty issues (translation: Lots of grousing Filch) and writing lots of letters (translation: placating annoying parents). 

And Hermione Granger was teaching his class.  Tomorrow morning she would step out in robes of some annoyingly uplifting color, into a dungeon that would, no doubt, be sunny and smell vaguely of lemons.  Smiles were probably in order, which would undoubtedly be followed up by comforting, understanding words, and explosions that mankind had not seen the like of since Pompeii blew.  The injuries would be horrific.  Irritated, Snape jerked upwards and began to shuffle through his miniatures stores cabinet, throwing things out onto the table petulantly.

If there was anything he'd learned in twenty years of teaching, it was that children between the ages of eleven and seventeen were the clumsiest, most absent-minded beings on earth.  Add that to a discipline where things turn deadly at the drop of a hat.  It's the equivalent of a truckful of nitroglycerin on a bumpy road.  The only way to keep everything in one piece is to make sure the students were deeply afraid of the teacher, because, gods know, they never had the proper fear for the potion.  They hated him for it, but it worked.  Well, in most cases.  He smiled wryly, remembering one of Mr. Longbottom's more spectacular failures, his hands automatically and expertly dicing the ingredients before him.    

And now Miss Hermione Warm-and-Fuzzy-Gryffindor Granger would be teaching his class with smiles and lollipops and points doled out wholesale.  No doubt grade inflation would follow.  Sunshine-and-Daffodils Granger would, tomorrow, single-handedly destroy the Hogwart's potions program he had so carefully built up.  Not to mention the sense of atmosphere he'd created in that dungeon.  Genius gone to waste, all because he was forced to hire a chit of a girl with no teaching experience and no common sense.  Well, her first lesson might blow out part of the castle, but it would give him an excuse to dismiss her.  Snape stared angrily at the valerian root that was hanging in shreds and tatters from his knife.  An ingredient ruined, effort wasted, and all indirectly her fault.  He pulled another from the cabinet and this time took more care when chopping it.

Stirring is one of the most implicitly boring activities in the universe, but also one of the most calming.  Naturally, Snape's mind wandered during his hand's employment.  Again, it moved to the nagging issue of Miss Granger, and especially her attitude during dinner.  He'd quite enjoyed the dig at her, and the look on her face as she tried (disastrously, in his opinion) to control her immediate anger.  No matter what Miss Proctor had been whispering to her, she'd still met his eyes, and crumbled under pressure.  Most satisfying.

Except for her uncanny camaraderie with Miss Proctor.  After having been told that he _had_ – no ifs, ands, or buts, about it – _had_ to hire Miss Granger for the potions position, he had spent three months in devious scheming about the best way to infuriate her to the point of resignation.  One would think that a Slytherin woman better endowed both physically and mentally would be enough to raise the bile in the girl's throat.  And hopefully send her fleeing back to the ministry universe, where she would have no contest for the title of Intelligence Queen.

But, no.  They were friends.  In fact close friends.  In fact he hadn't seen closer, if you discounted the two male members of The Gryffindor Disaster.  One week and they were inseparable; working together, socializing together, giggling indiscreetly together, acting girly together.  It was absolutely insufferable.  Antagonistic females plan backfired tremendously: instead of a catfight he got a bloody coven. 

Grimacing, he removed the cauldron form the flame, setting it aside to cool before bottling.  Wren _would _spite him so, even if she did only do it unconsciously (not bloody likely).  She was wondrously Slytherin, in the noble, traditional sense.  He'd remembered it with a proud nostalgia during the years of shepherding the Death Eater Youth Corps.  Now that he was living with it, it no longer seemed quite so wonderful.  

"Severus!" 

Well, speak of the devil.  Snape left the cauldron cooling on the counter and collected himself before striding out smartly into his main office with his best Impressive Professor walk.  It was entirely a wasted effort.  Wreneth had already seated herself in one of the squashy chairs by the fire, and was currently serving tea.  He sat in the opposite chair, slightly deflated, and silently accepted the cup she offered.    

"I know I haven't been to a welcoming feast in about nine years, but Dumbledore never did try so hard to scare the kids and antagonize the staff," she began merrily, biting the head off a gingerbread cookie.  She never had been what he would call a quiet person.    

"I hardly antagonized my staff, Miss Proctor  - "

"Wreneth," she interrupted.  "I was Miss Proctor for six years and hated it every second.  Now I don't have to put up with that formality, and I won't."

"Fine.  Wreneth.  As I was saying I have not antagonized my staff.  They are quite well used to my manner and mood having worked with me for a number of years, or," and at this he threw her a dark look, "been taught by me," he finished, sipping at his own tea and returning his gaze to the fire.  Tonight was no night to be having a manners debate with the girl.

"Ok, so most of the staff was amused by your speech.  I'll give you that one.  But don't say you weren't trying to actively annoy Hermione," Wren responded lightly, flicking her fingers idly at the fire, watching the flames color and spark in response.  

"You really shouldn't flaunt that so, Mi – Wreneth.  As for Hermione the girl is inexperienced and immature, completely unprepared to teach potions here.  And no, I was not trying to actively annoy her.  I am forty, not fourteen," Snape snapped irritably, banishing the colors from the fire with a wave.  He leaned further into his seat, allowing one hand to come up and massage aching temples.  The headache brew couldn't cool soon enough.

"Pfft! Please.  You're a master of subtle taunting, of goading people into anger.  True she's young, and never taught before, but don't try and fed me that bullshit about immaturity and ill-preparation," Wreneth replied, smiling at the headmaster's obvious discomfort.  "Have you read her thesis?" she asked lightly.

A long pause ensued.

"Yes."  It was grumbled low and petulantly.  Wreneth smiled into her tea; he could sound so much like a toddler when he was defensive.

"And?"

"And what?" snarled Snape.

"What did you think of it, obviously?" Wreneth pressed, waving her hand to emphasize the question.

Another long pause began, this one lasting for several long minutes as Snape stared broodingly at the fire.  

"It was brilliant."

"What?  I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, it was a brilliant work.  Well-researched, well tested, well documented.  She covered all possible angles, cited all the correct studies and procedures, not to mention some of the purely astounding leaps and connections she made.  Inspired work.  She's put potion-chemical research ahead ten years with one paper," he ground out angrily, clenching the cup so tightly in his fingers that the knuckles were whitening.  Sighing heavily he began to take a sip of tea.  "Wreneth, was it absolutely necessary to turn my tea green?" he asked, trying valiantly to grimace at both the offending cup, and the girl beside him who was doubled up in giggles.

"Well, you wouldn't let me play with the fire."  Snape gave another long-suffering sigh.  

"I think, Wreneth, that it's about time you went off to your rooms. Classes start tomorrow, and you'll need to be fresh in order to bail Miss Granger out of trouble," he began, trying to force her exit.

"Now just wait a second, Severus.  Bed can wait.  You've just admitted that she's a more the competent potions scholar, and you're still acting like she's a fifth-year student.  Why are you being such a bastard to her?" she asked smartly, her patience wearing thin and showing in her voice.  Still glaring at the headmaster, Wreneth stood and shook herself out, waiting her ground until she got an acceptable answer.

"Alright, she's and intelligent potions student, probably over-qualified for the position.  But she's never been a teacher, she's never taught potions to children, and she's going to get herself into a lot of trouble with her brazenly Gryffindor attitude of 'help now, think later'.  Not only that but she is defiant of my authority, and still regards me as the teacher she once had.  We conflict on a fundamental personality level. That's sufficient explanations for you.  Tomorrow is the first day of classes, I have much work to be done still, and a raging headache that you have only served to worsen. Now, go!" he roared the last, rising from his chair in a migraine-induced rage.  Wreneth regarded him coolly, towering over her black and foreboding, trembling slightly in exhaustion and anger.  

"There's more to this than you're telling me, and I'm going to find out what it is.  Poor girl doesn't deserve this kind of treatment.  We'll be having another, longer chat.  Soon," she snapped, and whirled on her heel, stalking out the door, a tiny bombshell of righteous anger and annoyance.  

After the door slammed behind her, Snape fell back, exhausted, into his chair.

The next morning dawned, ominously bright and cheerful.  Hermione woke at six charged with nervous energy.  The morning was spent pacing her chambers, fixing her robes (navy blue), changing her robes (basic black), and cleaning and re-organizing her desk, three times.  Breakfast passed without her even realizing. 

It was far too soon when the first class filed in silently, obviously not taking any chances with the new potions teacher.  Fourth year Gryffindor and Slytherin combined.  Hermione mastered her nerves and stood, unconsciously trying to project some Snape-like grace.  

"Welcome.  I am Professor Granger."  She paused, drawing upon her inner McGonagall.  The speech she'd prepared would be nowhere near Snape Eloquence Standards, but hopefully they'd still listen.   "For three years in potions you have been drilled in the basics of brewing, the foundation potions, the multifarious bases.  This year you will begin to learn the more useful, and therefore more complex potions.  All of these require the utmost care, for while their results can be beneficial, the brewing is often dangerous.  It will require complete attention and utter seriousness.  From the moment you enter class, until the moment you leave you must be aware of everything your doing.  This is no place for fun and silliness," she finished sternly.  "Now we'll begin today's lesson with an Anesthesia Potion.  Please turn to page 12 of your books."  And she turned and began to list ingredients and properties on the board, while behind her the class silently took notes.

Twenty minutes later the students were working over their cauldrons, their talk creating a dull hum in the background.  

Five minutes later the air began to hum.

"What's happening?  What did you add? Silence!!"

Three cauldrons erupted in purple columns of flame.

Six children were doused in boiling, slimy, liquid.

Four of them began to scream, and were cut off as their vocal cords deadened.

Two of them tried to run, only to find they could not feel their legs.  

Fourteen children stampeded for the door.

One distraught professor flooed the hospital wing.

                At the end of the last class, Hermione slumped into her chair, utterly exhausted.  It had been an utterly horrendous day.  Casualties had increased throughout the day, though not to the extent or seriousness of the first class.  She herself was frazzled, and her robes reeked of smoke and dead fish, courtesy of the Hufflepuff third years.  All she wanted was a warm dinner.  Preferably in her rooms, as she didn't think she could stand to see the sneer of self-satisfaction on Snape's face at having been right again.  Oh, and she hoped Wren would come by for a good chat.  Hermione needed to vent, in a big way.  Sighing heavily, she ran a hand through her hair, rubbing at the tension that had built in her neck.  Eyes closed, she moved down to her shoulders, both hands now working on the knots.  

                When she next opened her eyes, she was greeted with the sight of a small black owl sitting statuesquely on her desk.  Hermione groaned.  That owl, with his disdainful expression, but really more his beak, looked exactly like his owner.  She unrolled the parchment with ill-disguised irritation.

                Miss Granger,

I expect to see you promptly in my office following dinner. 

                Groaning she threw herself against the back of her chair.  The owl glared.

                Dinner was spent eating mechanically and staring at her food.  She would not, she promised herself, raise her eyes to look at Snape.  Would not.  Would not give him the pleasure of smirking cruelly at her for any extra time than she would already have to suffer through.  Hateful, cruel, snarky, man.  She hoped he choked on the chicken.  

                Bill and Wren, meanwhile, were exchanging worried glances over her head.  Both had tried communicating with her, and had been met with a monosyllabic wall.  The story of her disastrous first class had reached the ears of all, and they both felt keenly for the girl, especially since Snape was grinning fit to split his head in two.  Bill put a hand on her shoulder, just for a moment, warm and heavy to remind her that he was there.  Wren satisfied herself by glaring daggers at the headmaster.  And covertly vivifying his mashed potatoes.

                It was far too soon when Snape stood and stalked out, and the students stood and milled around the tables.  Hermione rose to her feet grudgingly, and for the first time in the night looked Wren in the eye.

                "Later, I'll be by your rooms.  You look in need of girl talk," she said comfortingly, cupping Hermione's face in her hands.  She smiled reassuringly, and watched the girl as she headed off for her meeting, each footstep weighted.

                Snape was standing beside his fireplace and staring at the flames, tall and black and forbidding, when she entered.  As soon as she'd crossed the threshold he'd turned and pinned her with an inquiring glance, leaving her as nervous as she'd been in her first year.  Silently he moved to behind his desk and motioned for her to enter and sit, waiting until she was settled before taking his own seat.  For several moments they sat, she staring at her lap, he watching her curiously over his enlaced hands.

                "So, Miss Granger, congratulations on your first day of teaching.  You have sent an unprecedented twelve students to the infirmary in one day of classes.  I would applaud you, but my position as headmaster depends upon me having a school to run," he said silkily, watching as the girl – most definitely still a girl – tensed and flushed.  She was twisting her robes and not meeting his eyes.  So dispirited.  Shame.

                "Sir – "

                "Please, wait.  There's more to come before you can try to scrabble together an excuse and an apology and call them justification.  Now, Miss Granger, when a teacher sends _twelve_ students to see Poppy in _one _day, notice is taken.  Especially if she is a new teacher.  Now, I know you consider yourself to be frightfully well qualified.  However, the truth is, you have never taught before.  Not even as an assistant.  Now, I hired you as a promise made and fulfilled.  I did not believe you capable then, and I certainly do not believe you capable now.

"Minerva would be highly displeased were I to dismiss you after this, despite your resounding failure.  However, Miss Granger, there are certain guidelines that must be followed in a school – the most important of these being protecting the students."  He quirked an eyebrow at her, and continued.  Hermione had lost her nervousness; it had been burned away in anger.  Now she was watching him, eyes blazing, sitting up straight and tall and righteous in her chair. But that was not what had caught his eye.  She seemed to be…laughing?  He filed it away in the back of his mind, and continued.  

"Now, as you know, we have no other teacher who can assist you, and hiring someone else would take time.  The best short-term solution is for you to begin teaching these."  At this he handed her a folder full of papers.  "I believe you have a copy of this.  It's my old curriculums.  You may teach from them, until you have gained some _experience_.  They are planned day for day, for all years, and for all houses," he finished softly, his voice as smooth and professional as ever.  Hermione was still watching him, obviously itching to tell him off.  Good.  He'd rather disliked the act of the shy, trodden-upon Granger.  

"Thank…you…sir.  I'm sure the curriculums will be very…useful," she bit out, standing sharply.  Snape almost grinned.  Almost.  Instead he nodded at her, a clear sign of dismissal.  Hermione understood, and left in huff, not neglecting to slam the door behind her.

With Hermione safely gone, Snape allowed the smirk to fully grace his face.  Granger always had been a bit of a spitfire.  For the first time all week, his headache was…well, not gone but reduced.  The headache potion cooling on his counter wouldn't be used tonight.


	6. We interrupt this broadcast to deliver m...

                Hermione settled back into her chair with a sigh of relief.  Last class of the day, last day of the week.  Idly she conjured a fire; the office was perpetually dank and chilly, even in September.  Joints popped and bones clicked as she stretched, catlike.  The week hadn't been too terrible actually, neglecting the first disastrous day, of course.  Snape's curriculums were useful, though less challenging than she would have liked.  Still, the classes were preceding fairly calmly - no more mass runs to the infirmary (though Hermione felt that might be due more to the rather angry speech she had made to all her classes the following day).  Today though, marked the advent of two blissfully peaceful days that were completely free for research, relaxation, and reading.

                A sharp knock on the door stirred her out of her daydreams, and she struggled into a proper sitting position just as Minerva entered, dressed in her heavy outdoor cloak.  She nodded curtly to Hermione, hands on her hips and her no-nonsense face firmly in place.  Hermione smiled warmly at her; the older woman softened almost imperceptibly.

                "Hermione, if you would grab your cloak, we're having dinner out tonight," she said, her voice still vaguely sharp.  

                "With who, may I ask?" Hermione replied as she stood and summoned her wrap from beside the fireplace.  Another flick of the wand damped the merry fire.  

                "You'll have to wait.  It was requested to be a surprise," Minerva answered, rolling her eyes to show just what she thought of this foolishness.  With a disdainful cluck she turned and left, Hermione scrambling to follow, still fiddling with her jacket fastenings.

                They walked swiftly up from the dungeons, passing students as they scurried on their way to dinner.  Lines of children were flowing into the Great Hall from every direction, their chatter spilling out into the entryway as a dull roar.  Hermione and McGonagall moved through silently and out the front doors.  A coach was waiting, horseless and driverless.  Hermione had barely set foot inside before it took off, forcing her to scramble inside and cling at the seat.  

                "Does the Headmaster know we're to miss dinner?" she asked worriedly, once she had been seated and settled.  

                "I informed him.  It's not as if he could refuse."  Though the rest of the journey was made in silence.  McGonagall relaxed more the further they got form the school.  Hermione contented herself with watching the black moors rush by, and mentally organizing the questions she was bursting to ask.

                They pulled up shortly in front of a small cottage that was sitting alone on a rise.  Warm light poured through the little square windows, and the small square door as it was opened.  It looked, Hermione thought, rather like one of those cheery, plump cottages that are painted on collectible plates.  Beside it, the carriage looked a good deal more threatening and imposing than it had any right too.

                Hermione found herself ushered into the little cottage, her cloak taken care of, and a small pair of hands at her knees pushing her towards a round, well-scrubbed table; McGongall had already seated herself.  Looking down, she was greeted by Winky's bulging eyes and obsequious smile.  She gave her another light tap towards the chair, before whisking away.  

                "Ah, how good to see you again Miss Granger.  I fear it has been rather too long since we have met in happy circumstances.  And Minerva, it is, as always, a pleasure to see you here," said a warm voice from behind Hermione.  She twisted about quickly and, following Minerva's example, stood.  

                Albus Dumbledore had looked only one hundred years old for more than half that time since.  He stood behind her now, hair and beard as white and flowing as ever, trademark grin and blue-eyed sparkle firmly in place.  When he crossed the room to greet them (a hug for Hermione, and another for a very stiff McGonagall), he moved with the same controlled grace and strength, and spoke in the same soft tones, unbroken by age or experience.  Welcoming over, dinner was swiftly conjured.

                They talked quietly over dinner, light conversation about how things were at the castle, Hermione's university work, Minerva's endless struggle with the Gryffindor quidditch team, and a dozen or so other subjects of passing interest.  Dumbledore sat in silence through most, drinking up the details and information about his former home in quiet contentment.  It wasn't until the remains of dessert were long cold that Albus gently nodded his head and requested tea by the fireplace.

                "Well, Hermione," he began once they had all been settled into squashy armchairs and given steaming cups.  "I believe I promised you an explanation when you arrived, and am sorry that I am terribly late in providing it.  Retirement is nearly busier than working was; without a school to run, I'm called upon nearly all the time for help," he said good-naturedly.  

                "Oh, come off it Albus.  You know perfectly well that you were dead bored that first month, before the ministry started calling you to clean up every problem in creation," McGonagall snapped, rolling her eyes over the rim of her mug.

                "Be that as it may, it is still no excuse for my tardiness in speaking to Miss Granger.  Especially as there are circumstances and choices that must be explained.  As Severus has undoubtedly told you - he has a terrible habit of letting things like this slip - he did not favor your placement as Potions Professor."  Dumbledore peered at her over the top of his half-moon glasses, and, setting aside his cup, steepled his hands in front of him.  For a long moment he subjected her to a scrutinizing look, carefully neutral and probing.

                "I was led to understand, sir, that you had requested my employment," Hermione responded, proud that her voice was free of any nervousness.

                "Indeed.  You, and Mr. Weasley were my final requests of Severus before retirement."  He broke off, and his gaze drifted towards possibly the fire and possibly Minerva, though his eyes were focused far away and he saw neither.  "You know, it is very hard Miss Granger, to leave a place you have been invested in for a good deal of your life; a place that has invariably become home, with people that have become family.  It is a very hard thing to cut your ties, even when you know it is the best thing to do."

                "Why did you leave then, sir, if you feel so strongly?" Hermione asked.  "I mean, there are many who never do."  

                "Ah yes, yes.  I love Hogwarts dearly, and am, perhaps more invested and entwined in the castle than any of us could guess.  But I would not become as one of the ghosts, forever haunting one era of my life.  It is as bad as spending a life before the Erised mirror."

                "Albus, honestly.  Speaking in riddles and tangents is all well and good when you're the mystical headmaster, but for explanations it's quite frustrating," snapped McGonagall, leveling a harassed glare in Dumbledore's direction.  He chuckled, and turned back to Hermione.

                "Alright, then.  I shall start at the beginning," he ventured, earning an approving nod from McGonagall.  "As I have mentioned, it was time for me to leave the school.  I wanted to see it in good hands, hands I could trust to protect it, treasure it, encourage it, as I hope I had done.  For many years I had believed that my second would be Minerva - "

                "Only to find that I absolutely refused the position.  Running a House is more than enough trouble, not to think of a whole school.  I'm perfectly content to be the emergency aid, but as a permanent position, please!" Minerva interrupted dryly, smiling at the slightly shocked look on Hermione's face.

                "Trust is a wonderful and fragile thing Hermione, and I found that there are too few in who I have been wholly able to place mine.  One of these few happens to be Severus.  And so I cajoled him into accepting."

                "Cajoled? Holding a man at wandpoint until he agrees is hardly cajoling Albus."

                "Where Severus is concerned, Minerva, anything short of an Unforgivable can be considered asking nicely," Dumbledore countered.  Hermione leaned back into her chair, amused beyond belief at the gentle repartee between the two.  It was comfortable and familiar; like a favorite book you know so well you could read it without really reading.  

                "Pardon my asking, sir, but no matter Professor Snape's objections, wouldn't the governors, and the parents, and, oh, just about everyone, complain?" Hermione asked.

                "Well, they did.  Quite loudly and at length.  However, you will find that most people are willing to listen in favor of age and wisdom."

                "Being a bloody powerful wizard doesn't hurt either."

                "Yes, that too, Minerva.  No matter, Severus was obviously the most capable wizard for the job.  He'd spent nearly twenty years heading a House of the most troubled, complicated students in the school.  Slytherin House is not evil, but it is difficult.  I always feel they have been unfairly tarred with a very black brush, especially those for who it is a family tradition.  So many overlook the good qualities there, as much as they do the bad in the other houses."

                Hermione couldn't restrain herself, and broke in at this point, leaning forward eagerly in her chair.  "Excuse me, sir, I know this may seem a bit rude, but why do we need to go over this?" she asked impatiently.  Dumbledore looked at her probingly before answering.

                "Hermione, I know the prejudices under which children suffer, the biases that they grow up with, especially in a house structure such as at Hogwarts.  Intelligent as you are, I want to be sure you understand that it is who we are, not what we are perceived as, that determines our personality.  The Sorting and the House system are merely another way of perception.  They do not tell truths."  He leaned back into his chair, eyes solemn, regarding her as his words sank in.  Her face, usually so readable, was carefully blank as she looked at the fireplace.  A few moments passed before Dumbledore softly cleared his throat, and Hermione returned her attention.

                "As I said, Severus was the obvious choice, and with a little convincing, the rest of the wizarding world accepted it.  And with a little threatening, he finally accepted it.  However, before I handed over my position to him, I asked one last favor, to indulge the fancies of an old man.  And requested that yourself and Mr. Weasley be made professors.

                "I wished to entrust you two with the protection and guidance of Hogwarts, and the minds therein.  Hermione, I am a selfish old man, and have taken both you and Bill away from promising careers and bright futures to safeguard that which is dearest to me.  By being there, by being a part of the growth of the wizarding future.  Xenophobia, prejudice, racism: these things cannot be driven from our world by one victory.  They are insidious, and you will see them rise again, in other forms and with less power, but they will continue to exist.  You, Severus, Harry, the Weasleys…even Miss Proctor, are newly responsible for fighting these eternal evils.  I chose you because Severus, powerful as he is, needs…needs support at Hogwarts.  You have all had a baptism by fire, and now it is your time to continue what Minerva, what Alastor, what I have fought, as we have continued for those before us.  I chose you because Hogwarts needs your power and your spirit," he finished heavily, and leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking tired.  No one spoke, and the only sound was the crackle as the logs in the fireplace settled and shifted.  

"So, Miss Granger," Dumbledore began again quietly, "you see that I had hoped to give you a small modicum of protection against Severus' rather ruthless manners.  Alas, I am too late, but I hope this shall warm you enough to continue to…coexist with the new headmaster.  Now, I believe it is rather late, and you have research planned for this weekend, so tomorrow's start shall be early.  Winky will show you to your rooms."  He sighed and stood, folding Hermione in a comforting hug, before pushing her lightly towards the waiting house elf.  Both disappeared into the shadows of the cottage.  

                "Well, that was truly a masterpiece of exposition.  I didn't think it was possible to conceal so much when so frankly telling the truth," Minerva grumbled as she rose, and went to stand behind Dumbledore's chair, putting one soothing hand on his shoulder.  Beneath her palm, she felt his shoulders rise and fall in another sigh.

                "There are many things the girl must discover for herself, Minerva.  There were several things I told her she should have found for herself."

                "Oh, honestly.  Just because you're practically an Oracle doesn't mean the rest of us unblessed with the Inner Eye," and here she snorted at the very Sybil-ness of it all, "can see the board so clearly.  She learned much of use, and nothing of use, and has everything to discover," Minerva said, calmly, leaning against into the back of the chair.  One old hand came up to cover hers, warm and smooth.  After a pause, "It was right of you to leave you know.  They can't depend on you to save them forever.  We're getting old Albus, it's time for the young ones to come forward."  He chuckled at her then, and smiled, pulling her around by the hand until she was perched on the arm of his chair.

                "How easily you include me in your generation Minerva!"

                "You belong to every generation, Albus.  Eventually."

                "Not this one."  They sat in silence, watching as the fire died slowly.  Minerva's hand rested again on Dumbledore's shoulder, while her other was entwined with his.  

                "They'll be all right.  Voldemort is gone now, in truth.  There will be darkness, of course, but nothing they can't handle," she said, turning so that her eyes trapped his, both facing each other behind their spectacles.

                "Voldemort is gone, but there will be another.  There always is.  Maybe not for them, or their children, but there will be another.  It is the way of history," he said sadly, gently squeezing their locked hands.  For the first time in many years Minerva noticed the age in his face; too many lines that cut too deeply, too much worry weighing for too long.  He looked so…old.  The moment passed, as all do, and the firelight changed, and he was again Albus Dumbledore, ageless.  He turned his gaze from the fire, meeting her examining eyes with just a hint of worry in his own.  She didn't realize she'd asked until she heard him answer, felt his voice rumble underneath her hand.

                "Are they ready?"

                "Of course they are.  We taught them."

                The next morning dawned bright and clear.  Hermione was treated with watching it break over the moors as she and McGonagall sped back towards the castle.  Minerva had fallen soundly asleep in the corner, hat askew over her eyes.  Hermione was not so lucky.  The last night had provided her with far too much food for thought.  There was, she knew instinctively, something fishy about the whole situation.

                Wreneth was waiting when they rolled up, sharing a bagel on the front steps with Bill.  They were reading something and laughing when the carriage rolled up, but dropped it in favor of greeting her.  Bill helped McGonagall down from the carriage.

                "We've so much to do today!  I went down to your rooms earlier, only to find you gone.  I thought someone had kidnapped you!" Wreneth exclaimed, practically bouncing over.

                "Yes, she was fit to send me out on a noble quest to save you until Snape told us where you and McGonagall had gone," laughed Bill, steadying Hermione as she leapt from the carriage.  He offered his arm with an extended chivalrous flourish, which Hermione responded to in kind, and slipped her arm through his.  Wreneth bounced over to their side and took Hermione's other arm.

                "Alright, girly!  Time's a-wasting, and we have much research to do.  The contentment potions and cheering charms and serotonin have already waited to long!  To the lab!" she cried, and thrust her arm out in a dramatic sweep towards the dungeons, gamely attempting to drag Hermione and Bill with her at a jog.

                "Well, I'll leave you two to it, then," the redhead laughed, and disengaged himself from the tangle of arms.  Still giggling though the joke was long dead, they found themselves in the dungeons.  All pretenses at foolishness were dropped as they entered the lab.  Wreneth pulled her into a side room, barely the size of a closet, and dumped a load of shrunken books onto the table, enlarging them to their original size with a sharp snap.   

                "So, it looks like we're ready to start the grunt work.  All right, from your notes and thesis, I know you were looking mostly at the effect of potions on the body, and how that relates to the natural chemical processes that occur, how the magic affects the organic system responses of wizards as opposed to the system of the Muggle human being.

                "What I was looking for was not just how potions affected the chemical responses and systems, but also how the purely magical spells, such as charms and hexes, interact with the organic matter.  We're starting with some fairly easy stuff, just to get you introduced to the topic.  What we'll be dealing with is Cheering Charms, the various cheering and contentment potions, and their effect on the system, mainly on the flow of serotonin in the brain," Wreneth stated brusquely, arranging piles of books as she spoke, and shuffling papers in a businesslike manner.  "Serotonin, as you will soon read about in great depth, is one of the major chemicals in the human brain responsible for feelings of happiness, enjoyment, and euphoria.  These are a couple of texts and papers I believe you will find useful in obtaining rudimentary knowledge of the subject.  

                "Blues are Muggle medical texts and journals, greens Muggle case studies of depression and related illnesses.  Oranges are Magical medical texts, though these are usually quite useless, and reds and yellows are relatively recent articles from Magical academia on potions and charms work respectively.  Purples are magical texts ranging in age from hot-off-the-presses to very archaic concerning potions, the brewing, the effects, and the desired results.  Pinks are the same, only as refers to charms.  The small pile of whites in the corner is reports on maladies of the body and mind that magic could not cure," Wreneth listed, fluttering her fingers at each pile in turn and creating a blaze of color.  When she was finished the books glowed softly in their respective colors, neatly organized in the order of the visible spectrum.

                "Wreneth?" 

                "Tomorrow we'll start work in the lab.  And remember, absolutely no magic is allowed outside of that required in the experiments for testing.  We can't take our chances polluting the results," the woman continued, apparently oblivious to the question. 

                "Wreneth?" Hermione tried a bit louder, placing a hesitant hand on Wren's shoulder.

                "– conditions are less than desirable for lab work – Yes?"

                "How did you do that?"

                "Do what?"

                "The books, change the color like that, without your wand," Hermione said, and gifted Wreneth with a deeply curious look.  For a few moments the woman merely stared at her, obviously not comprehending.  Then understanding broke over her face like dawn might over some very fleshy hills.  

                "You aren't taught wandless magical control?" she asked thoughtfully. 

                "Control?  Wandless magic is the crude result of a young wizard or witch's maturing power.  It can't be controlled, and if controlled, cannot be wielded effectively," Hermione responded, sounding for all the world like an informational pamphlet.

                "Well, I think I just put paid to that idea.  I can't believe they haven't introduced it here." 

                "Is it popular in America, then?"

                "It's practically the only thing used.  Wands are more of a formality back home than anything else," Wreneth replied with a grin, and settled herself on top the table as comfortably as possible.  The question – well, actually, questions, multiple – were obvious in Hermione's face, and nothing but a full explanation would do.  "The US, as you know, is a wicked big place, and magicals are spread out all over it, from sea to shining sea, you know.  So instead of trying to hide our entire society from the Muggles, the way you Europeans do, we integrated with them.  Most wizards live in Muggle neighborhoods, go to Muggle schools, and basically participate in all the daily activities of a nation of non-wizards.  Of course there are a few hidden pockets of wizard society, like our universities and schools, and some communities, but mostly we exist as just a different ethnicity in a country that is, for all intents and purposes, a cultural free-for-all," Wren explained cheerily, her hands flashing through the air as the spoke, leaving little trails of sparkles and color curling in their wake.

                "So, having a foot-long piece of wood on your person at all times would be a little conspicuous," Hermione completed.

                "You catch on quick, kid.  Exactly.  So American wizards spend a lot of time teaching their children to channel, control, and manipulate wandless magic.  It can be used subtly and secretly, even in the Muggle world, and it a lot more powerful and pure than magic channeled through a wand."

                "Why don't they teach it in England?"

                "Mostly because most of Europe is stuck in the wizarding Dark Ages, time of wizarding boom, gothic pride, and (what I secretly suspect is the most potent reason) appropriately thematic and impressive fashion.  That, and it's a lot harder to track wandless work, and a lot easier to do 'Dark' spells because of the power available.  And you guys have had a pretty lengthy history of megalomaniacal Seriously Evil Bad Guys.  Makes you all kind of twitchy and tightly controlled," Wren finished with a wide grin.

                "Oh, and I suppose Dark wizards are a purely European problem.  Not a worry to Americans at all?" Hermione queried, just a little peeved by the dig.

                "Sarcasm is not your forte, leave that to Snape.  Anyway, not Dark wizards – we have those – just the classist, purity-of-blood ones are kind of a European specialty.  America doesn't have the same issues with that, because of the nature of the immigration and constant association with non-magicals in our history.  It's nearly impossible to stay completely pureblooded in America.  We have our own problems, mostly in the form of nasty ethnic wizarding wars.  Purity of blood isn't a problem, but where your wizardry comes from is," she said grimly, eyes focusing on some troubling point in her mind's eye.

                "Every place has their own unique horror story.  America sounds rather nice for all that, though," Hermione replied, a touch wistfully.  "Wreneth?"

                "Hmm?"

                "Well, I know we're busy researching, and what with teaching too, and – "

                "Spit it out, already." 

                "Can you teach me how to use wandless magic?"

                "Sure.  Was going to offer anyway.  It's wicked easy and great for party tricks, laziness, and petty revenge.  We'll start next week, after these tests are run," she said, grasping Hermione's hand in a firm shake. 

"But for now though, you need to get started on reading these books, and I need to get some serious experiment re-design done."  Wreneth smiled and hunkered down with her notes a little ways away from the Book Rainbow.  Hermione spent a blissful few hours reading through notes, researching techniques both magical and Muggle.  In the background she could hear Wreneth, shuffling through the same preparatory procedures, humming lightly under her breath. 


	7. And now back to your regularly scheduled...

'Unlikely' Is An Understatement

Chapter 7

**-  _I've known flobberworms that are more interesting_**

-  _Do they whine about continually having to pretend they have the Inner Eye?_

Snape shot a particularly venomous glare down the table in the direction of the poorly-hushed giggles.  Trelawney struggled bravely onward in her monologue, acknowledging the interruption with only a sigh that seemed to indicate the magnitude of her suffering had jumped form merely long to interminable.  The sigh went mostly ignored by the entire staff, as she had uttered one after each of Hooch's snores.

The staff, Snape noted, as he took another casual glance around, was locked in states of boredom from cross-eyed to comatose.  Sybil had been speaking steadily in that fuzzy moth voice for at least twenty minutes, having begun with her difficulties in getting students to take Divination seriously, and expanding from there onto the intricacies of the subtle study of fortune-telling (Snape had had to bite his cheek sharply to keep from sneering), to the lack of respect for the art (and here she had focused her great buggy eyes on Minerva's impassively bored face).  Currently she was whining about the cloudiness of late of her inner eye, and what this could augur for the future.     

_- **Even Snape looks fit to kill**._

_- He hates staff meetings.  Especially the monthly wrap-up._

_- **Don't we all?  I don't know why we bother**._

_- Because when else can Minerva and Sinistra bicker over the Quidditch games?_

                Another burst of giggles was ineffectually stifled, startling Trelawney out of her meandering mental health checkup and Bill out of a deeply satisfying powernap.  The entire staff table was moving, stretching, shifting to accommodate sleeping limbs.  Sybil had sat down with ill grace, nose in the air, ignoring Hooch beside her who was mouthing devout thank-yous to the ceiling.  

                "Perhaps, Miss Granger, you would like to share your September assessment with us?" Snape asked coldly, that smooth smirk on his face.  Writing notes under the table, honestly; could she not at least pretend for one meeting that she was an adult?  Never mind the girl's interruption had been a blessing, she was still a) rude and immature, and b) Hermione Granger.

- **_Bloody Bastard!!_**

__

                "Certainly sir," she replied, rising and pasting a cheery, yet vaguely malicious smile on her face.  And a few paper shuffles for effect, then she grabbed eye contact with him and throttled it.  "As you know, my first day here was…well, the best term is disastrous.  Things have improved steadily, and the accidents are very, very infrequent."

                "Lowest number of potions related accidents in twenty-five years," chipped in Madam Pomfrey.

                "Thank you, Poppy," and Hermione tossed a genuine smile her way, breaking the eye contact with Snape momentarily before continuing.  "There are of course, the few minor incidents of laxness and duplicity where homework is concerned, but they are easily dealt with.  I believe someone else mentioned Miss MacCurdle?  Indeed– "

                "Is that all Miss Granger? Will you continue to waste our time, or do you have something of substance to contribute?" Snape interrupted.  Hermione's face took on a decidedly stern look, and she leaned forward, both hands on the table.

                "Well, sir, actually I did not wish to mention it before a room of our colleagues, but while your syllabi were extremely helpful for the first few weeks, I feel my students in the fourth form and above deserve more of a challenge," she said icily.  Snape took the bait like a great greedy flounder.

                "Challenge?  Those curriculums are extremely difficult!" he snapped out, also rising to his feet.

                "Well, I'm sure they were when you taught them," she replied coolly, hands moving from the table to her hips.  Snape looked as if he'd been slapped, only for a moment though, as his face soon became very dark and sneering.  Hermione went into a mental crouch.

                "Any competent teacher would have found those to be sufficiently interesting and demanding for the older students," he hissed.  Everyone in the staff room, even Sybil, was intensely interested in the brewing argument.  Hermione leaped. 

                "In the fourth form and older, the students have learned and flawlessly performed everything on your syllabi up through November.  Were we to continue at this exponential rate, I would have nothing to teach come April.  I believe this more than demonstrates competency," she explained smoothly, and couldn't help throwing in a superior smirk.  Beside her, Wreneth's grin became incandescent.  The looks on the faces of her other colleagues was all she needed to go for the crowning glory.  She went for the jugular.  "I believe, sir, that it would be most beneficial to the students if I returned to teaching my original curriculum."  Snape was perfectly still for a moment, not even breathing in his fury.  Then, explosion.

                "**A REVIEW!**   **MISS GRANGER, I SHALL PERSONALLY REVIEW YOUR TEACHING!  THE FOURTH FORM AND OLDER!**"

                "And after I've passed, may I teach my curriculums?"

                "**IF YOU PASS!  I WARN YOU, GIRL, YOUR RUSHED LESSONS WILL HAUNT YOU NOW!**" he roared, and stalked out of the room, robes flaring out behind him.  Hermione just grinned, and collapsed laughing into her chair.

                "Well, that's it.  You've better start refining those curriculums," Wreneth teased.  The rest of the staff was shell-shocked, staring at the giggling girls.  

                "You've actually taught them that much, effectively?" Minerva asked disbelievingly.  "Severus is spiteful, and I can promise you those students will need to remember as if they were taught yesterday to pass."  

                "Oh, Minerva, you would not believe what those students are capable of when potions is taught with a bit of care.  They shall all pass, every one!" Hermione shouted joyously.  "I just hope he doesn't try to renege on his promise," she mused, suddenly feeling a little uncertain.

                "Oh, don't fret, my dear.  There are twelve witnesses here that will attest to his words," Flitwick interjected, giving Hermione a reassuring smile.  

                Snape was still in a dark mood the next morning, but the presence of students in the hall forced him to, if not be civil, at least contain his murderous rage.  Hermione, armed with a cup of coffee and Wreneth, sat as far from him as she could at breakfast, and endeavored to avoid looking in his general direction at all costs.  Caution, in this case, she felt, was indeed the better part of valor.

                All her active ignoring of Snape left her completely surprised by the appearance of a note upon her toast.  The owl that had brought the note was staring at her with a decidedly angry glare (partly because he felt she was unutterably stupid, and partly because his half-witted owner had named him Rosencrantz).  Hermione retrieved her note, and fed Rosencrantz a piece of bacon that did not nearly make up for the injustice of life.

                _Miss Granger,_

_                                Your review will occur tomorrow.  Wednesday will be allotted for in class observation.  Thursday will be a day of practical testing for all your classes.  The subject matter shall be of my choice, per my syllabi through November._

_                Severus Snape_

                Silently, she showed the note to Wreneth, and continued to work through her breakfast, nodding her head in response to something Bill was saying. 

                "Will you be ready on such short notice?  The bastard barely gives you any time to warn the kids!"

                "I do believe so.  They don't really need the warning.  They are prepared enough to be able to tackle this.  I have faith in them."  She turned suddenly to the older woman with a beseeching look that made her look vaguely childish.  "Wreneth, could we go for a quick walk before classes?"

                It wasn't until they were alone in the Muggle Studies classroom that Hermione began to open up.  They sat on top of the student desks, and kicked their heels in the air as though they were fourteen again.  Wreneth settled herself leaning back on her elbows; Hermione remained ramrod straight.

                "I wanted to thank you, Wren.  A month ago, I would've been so scared of having him testing me like this.  I just…what with the wandless lessons, and, well…everything," she sighed, and raised her arms wide in a futile attempt to encompass the enormity of her gratitude. 

                "You had it in you all the time kiddo," Wreneth answered lazily, rolling her head back to look at the ceiling.

                "Maybe.  But, well, just at the beginning there, I didn't have the confidence to stand up to him.  He always was the weak point in my career as a student.  Things haven't changed much," snorted Hermione, and leaned back as Wreneth did, if a bit more stiffly.

                "Ah, but they have.  Look at the way you tricked him at his own game yesterday.  Your strapping young male friends will be fit to die of laughing when they hear it.  Classes are starting soon," Wren said, and hopped off the desk, brushing imaginary dust off.  Hermione followed and headed for the door, straightening her skirt.

                "Hermione," Wreneth called as the girl reached for the handle, "thank you for trusting, and not judging." A brilliant smile was flashed in response, and the door was opened.  "And, honestly, use the Floo, or you'll be late."

                The morning of the classroom review dawned cold and gray, with persistent clouds that threatened to hang over the castle out of spite.  The potions classroom was silent as the dull light touched upon the spotless desks, spotless cauldrons, and spotless things in jars on shelves.  Hermione Granger had woken at four that morning, and had been cleaning ever since.  Even now the light drifted over her, nervously organizing her desk, shaking slightly after her third cup of coffee.                   

                Eventually there was nothing left on her desk to shift about anxiously, and she settled in the chair behind it.  Sitting caused unattractive wrinkles in her skirt and robes.  Now standing, she smoothed her hand over the front of her long skirt.  She'd spent far too much time this morning deciding what to wear, trying skirts of lengths varying from floor to knee, then casting them off in favor of dress pants, then deciding that neither looked good with her shirt.  It had been an ordeal she was not inclined to repeat.

                Time ticked by agonizingly slowly, and (though she was loathe to do so) Hermione went round and lit the candles.  Another fifteen minutes wended it's way by.  Alphabetizing the unmentionables in jars, how could she have forgotten?  How could she do it, though, as she couldn't put a name to most?  Breakfast was just started.  The smells of warm food floated down even to here.  Nausea welled up in her stomach.  Breakfast would be nearly over.  Surprising, really that Snape wasn't there yet.

                The door creaked open.  Think of the devil.  He glided in silently, ignoring her presence as he called a chair and seated himself unobtrusively in the corner.  Hermione buried the urge to talk to him, and instead translated her energy into writing potion ingredients on the board.  Students, Ravenclaw fifth years, were filing in, chatting a bit as they took their seats.  None acknowledged the visitor; Alvin Willis did not even shiver as he sat down beside Snape, and was gifted with a nasty sneer.

                Hmm, a very clever cloaking spell indeed, for Hermione could still see him quite clearly.  When the last student had entered (perfectly on time, she noted gleefully), she turned neatly and stepped forward towards the class.  They were silent, and attentive, instantly.  Textbooks lay on every desk, along with quills and parchment.  

                "Today will be a practical day.  You may put away your textbooks," she said, waiting for the sudden flurry of movement to subside.  "Now, who can tell me which potion we are brewing?"  Several hands sprang up in response, and she nodded at a short blond boy in the front row.

                "A Confusion Potion," he replied.

                "Two points to Ravenclaw, Mr. Kirkpatrick.  Can anyone tell me the properties and effect?  Yes, Miss Akers," Hermione called, encouraging the student with a hint of a smile.

                "Odorless and light blue in color; depending on dosage, affects the perceptions of the drinker, due mostly to the inclusion of _Amanita Muscaria_, which have hallucinogenic properties," she answered precisely.  The rest of the class was busy noting these facts down beside the ingredients they'd listed.  A glance in Snape's direction showed an annoyed sneer on his face as he furiously scribbled notes.  The sudden resemblance to Professor Umbridge's inspections was so startlingly funny that Hermione nearly burst into giggles.  

                "Take two more points for your house, Miss Akers," she recovered smoothly, and desperately hoped she'd kept the amusement from her voice.  "You should have plenty of time to brew this particular potion in the remainder of the period, as well as test.  The dosage is low enough that your perceptions will be altered only mildly, and for a very short amount of time.  However, for those of you who have a class next period, there is also an antidote…Begin," she said sharply, and watched as the students sprang to their feet and gathered the stores.  Many came back with extra supplies that were clearly intended for brewing the antidote.

                After fifteen minutes of watching from the front of the class, Hermione proceeded to go up and down the rows, checking colors and consistencies, and answering the odd question.  She watched carefully as ingredients were added, for though students had to test even incorrectly brewed potions, she would never let them try one that was dangerous.  Ever since that first disastrous day she had been hyperaware of her student's work while brewing.  Alice Adelbert's antidote would most likely turn her face blue.  Jim Perkins' would leave him smelling like rotten eggs.  Marcia Golden would need a stronger antidote, judging by how many mushrooms she'd added.  

                "Testing time," she called, and watched as they carefully ladled out the dosage they had calculated given their weight.  Those who had prepared antidotes measured out those as well.  As a group they ingested the potion.  Hermione cast a nervous eye over towards Snape.  She had nearly forgotten him sitting so quietly there in the intensity of monitoring the students.  He was watching them with a stern eye, mouth firmly fixed in a cruel frown.  Please, please let them all be right, she prayed. 

                And, unsurprisingly – or rather, miraculously, if you were Snape – they all were.  Marcia Golden was suffering a bit more, true, but nothing so bad that it was a major failure.  Relief sweeping through her, Hermione walked up and down the aisles, gently directing those who had brewed antidotes on drinking them.  By the end students were gathering their bags and weaving in the general direction of the door.  Those whose antidotes had worked were guiding some of the less fortunate.

                Hermione wiped down the board, and nearly released a sigh of relief before she remembered that Snape was still lurking in the room.  Any time that may have been given to fretting over his opinion of the class or of her teaching was swept away by the incoming tide of Hufflepuff third years. 

                The constant rush of students throughout the day took her mind off of that brooding presence.  Only occasionally would she catch a glimpse of him, of his expressions at the time.  Earlier in the day she had made eye contact, and faltered in the middle of her lecture, to a combined Gryffindor-Slytherin class, no less.  His face, at that one moment, had been neither annoyed, nor sneering, nor superior, nor smirking, nor any of the other range of expressions she associated with him.  It had unnerved her wholly.

                Lunch came and went, and Snape had slipped out and into the classroom before she had realized it.  Hermione thought it best to take her own lunch in her office, and spent a blissful hour reading _Wuthering Heights_ and munching on a cheese sandwich and apple.  The end of the day was tiresome, with a Gryffindor-Slytherin seventh year double potions lecture (thank God it wasn't a practical, she rejoiced).  Other than some choice bits of Mister Rhys Thrope's delusions of Slytherin wit – she had even caught Snape sniggering at the atrocious one-liners – the class went smoothly.  Snape slipped out for dinner along with the students, apparently invoking a complete cloaking spell, for when she returned to her desk in the empty classroom, she found a large white envelope with her name printed in his unique script.

                "Screw dinner," she said aloud to no one, picking up the envelope, and shoving it in among her other papers.  Screw dinner, screw grading.  There was a nice bottle of whiskey and a brooding Heathcliff waiting in her study to keep her company tonight. 

                The note had contained a short message concerning what to prepare in advance for his test.  Hermione did not wake so early to prepare on this morning, instead taking a leisurely time just before and during breakfast to attend to the instructions he'd left her.  She could have made him get his own materials together, but that something in his face from the lecture jumpstarted a little courtesy.  

                "Good morning, Miss Granger," Snape said.  From just behind her ear.  She leaped in surprise, scattering powdered wormwood all over the workbench.

                "That's highly rude!" she snapped, and glared at him; with a smirk and wave of his wand he cleaned up the mess, and took the bottle from her hands.  Leaving the ingredients, he walked over to the desk and admired it with a proprietary air.

                "_Accio chair_.  Miss Granger, if you would please seat yourself.  I would suggest retrieving some grading or similar to amuse yourself with today," he said, gesturing at the chair he'd called over to sit beside the desk.  Still glaring she retreated to her office, leaning heavily against the closed door and counting backwards from ten.  Ah, well, maybe from fifteen.  Twenty, then.

                When she returned, a sheaf of essays in hand and Bronte under her arm, Snape was already seated at her desk, initiating the menacing, scowling glare she remembered so well from her student days.  Already the sixth-year Hufflepuffs were flowing in, just a little early, and noticing with looks of horror that Professor Snape appeared to have returned to teach.  Instantly the classroom settled and went silent; the air was practically humming with nervous energy.

                "Today will be a practical examination.  You have the entire period to brew these two potions correctly," he barked, and waved towards the board where the names of two potions appeared.  "Bring vials stopped and labeled with your name, year and house to the desk at the end."  Snape paused for dramatic effect, catching the eyes of a few wary students.  "Begin," he drawled softly, and leaned back into his chair almost lazily as the students leapt to attention and headed for the stores.

                The students worked quietly through the period, sneaking the occasional glances up at the imposing form of the Headmaster, and the far more comforting sight of their usual potions professor.  Snape said nary a word throughout the entire exercise, merely leaning back in his chair, hands clasped, eyes focused on some point far away.  Hermione was dividing her time between watching to make sure no one bollixed up too badly, trying to correct the second-year essays, and sneaking glances at Snape.

                When the classroom had finally emptied, and there was a row of glass vials on the desk, Snape stirred, moving as though waking from a deep sleep.  For an unguarded second he glanced at Hermione, before dropping a full sneer into place.  Still without speaking he cast a small enchantment on the bottles, carefully scrutinizing them.

                "Well, Miss Granger," his voice broke loudly into the quiet, "Not a single utter failure, though there are four of questionable stability and two that may produce some undesired side effects when ingested."  He paused for a moment, pointedly not looking at her.  "This is your free-period, no?"  

                "Yes, sir," she responded curtly, and turned immediately back to her marking.  Hermione was, all things considered, rather proud of her students' performance, despite the tone of Snape's assessment.  They sat in silence for another few minutes, Hermione working away industriously at her marking, and desperately trying to ignore any looks Snape might be throwing her way.  Sighing, he finally stood and headed in the direction of her office.

                "Where are you going?" Hermione called, head snapping up from her work fast enough to simulate whiplash.

                "I had thought you were actively ignoring me.   Pity to stop now," he replied.

                "Why are you going to my office?" she inquired fussily.

                "Reading material," Snape said simply, and stepped through the door.

                "Help yourself then," Hermione mumbled bitterly.

                "Oh, I intend to."

                He returned holding a large theoretical potions text, and settled himself again in front of the desk.

                "Why aren't you out doing something in this period off?" she asked, marking a large red x through some point or other.   No response.

                "Think I'll tamper with the results?"

                Again, silence.

                "Afraid – "

                "Miss Granger, when one is trying to read, it is common practice to refrain from besieging them with questions," he interrupted snarkily without once looking up from the book.   

                The other classes came and went in much the manner of the first, though word had gotten around by now that Snape had stepped in to test potions.  He varied between subjecting them to written tests or practical examinations, but did not sweep down the aisles in classic fashion, or even say a word beyond the bare first address.  

                When he finally stormed off to dinner (robes billowing as of old), Hermione found herself once again unable to summon the necessary enthusiasm for dinner with screaming children and curious adults.  Picking up Wuthering Heights she stole away again to the privacy of her quarters.

                Snape also chose to make his appearance at dinner a short one.  He could not endure for long the alternately glowering and inquisitive looks Wreneth kept shooting him, as well as the daggers Minerva was vainly attempting to stare at him.  Dining conditions like this made food positively inedible.

                He swirled away as soon as he could and hid in his personal secret laboratory.  The warm – but not fuzzy – feeling he'd contracted from teaching again was beginning to fade, and he traitorously wanted to enjoy it for as long as possible.  This required not thinking about the fact that Hermione "Pain-in-the-Arse" Granger apparently had lived up to her outrageous claims.  Damn and blast her.  He'd have to allow her to teach her own bloody curriculums.  

                Not that that was the problem.  The problem was having to quietly eat his words and admit defeat to the chit of a girl.  Why had he ever wished her to have more confidence?  Give her that, and she starts raising hell!  In a petulant fit he tossed the examination papers out into a corner of the lab table.  He would go over them more thoroughly later.  For now though…

                Infinitely more carefully he removed another sheaf of papers from his robes.  When he'd gone in to find a book, he had seen them on her desk.  Perhaps the first cursory glance had been an invasion of privacy.  But the second time?  They practically jumped on his eyeballs and screamed, "Read me!"  So he'd carefully stowed the neat pile underneath his robes, and left another pile of blank parchments in its place.

                He emerged from the little laboratory, checking carefully that no one was anywhere in his personal quarters.  The papers were again stowed beneath his shirt.  Slowly he poured a glass of wine, removed his heavy robes, and sank into his favorite chair by the fire.  Then, feeling all too much like a guilty child for his own peace of mind, he pulled out the stack of notes and smoothed down the first page.

                _Contentment and Euphoria potions create these feelings due to affecting, or possibly even creating serotonin…_

Severus Snape sipped the wine while he read, and unconsciously smiled. 


	8. Karmic retribution is bliss

_Miss Granger,_

_                                Upon evaluation of the results of your review, I have found it advisable that you indeed be allowed to design and teach your own curriculum.  However your teachings will be subject to my scrutiny._

_                                                                                                Severus Snape _

                Hermione nobly refrained from waving the note about in the air in triumph.  Down table from the gleeful girl, Severus Snape was making a very thorough inspection of his eggs.  He was, overall, in two minds about the situation, the first one being spitting mad that he'd let her win, the second in a state of near dread.

                This was occasioned by the fact that it was Saturday morning.  There were, of course, many reasons why Saturdays should provoke a sense of horror: students wandering the castle unchecked, gossipy teachers with free afternoons, etc.  More importantly, at least to Severus, was the fact that there were two teachers who did not have free afternoons, who spent their entire weekends researching.  And he'd purloined a set of their lab notes.  From the half of this pair whom was most likely to shove her wand so far down his throat and cast – 

                That didn't bear thinking about.

                Especially not at breakfast.  

                He stormed from the Great Hall as soon as politeness would allow, not noting the smirks of two girls watching his retreat.  Wreneth looked like the cat who'd caught the canary, teeth bared in a manic grin.  

                "He's having fits over this.  Nicely done, Hermione.  Nicely done," Wreneth said approvingly.  She poked her friend lightly in the ribs, redirecting her attention to the notes they'd been perusing before the interruption of the owl.  

                "Good morning, ladies," said Bill cheerily as he settled down in the empty chair beside Hermione and began filling a plate.  The girls mumbled a vague good-morning/hello, still wrapped intently in their work. 

                "What are you planning for today?" he ventured a little while later, having been content with the silence while he was eating. 

                "Mmm…research," Hermione replied around a mouth of pancake.  "Oh…well, how about using that as the reactant?" She stabbed her fork at the notation in emphasis, drops of syrup dripping onto the page.  

                "No, no good.  You can't get enough power from it.  The reaction's too slow…and watch out, your dripping!" Wreneth mumbled in response.  Slowly, Bill reached his hand around Hermione…

                "I still think you could use it."

                A couple more inches…

                "Time elapsed is too long!"

                A whisper of paper on his fingers…

                "Well, how about adding more?"

                Ah, a corner.

                "HEY!" Twin female voices rose in irritation at a grinning Bill Weasley.  He held the sheaf of papers above his head, and jiggled them meaningfully.   

                "You two need a break.  You've spent every weekend previous working on this project.  One Saturday off won't hurt you," he tried to reason, emphasizing his point by dangling the precious notes over an open bowl of pudding.  

                "Fine, fine," Hermione jumped in holding up her hands in resignation.  "We can afford one day off," she reassured Wreneth over her shoulder.  "When and where and what?"

                "Entrance hall, thirty minutes, it's a surprise," Bill fired back, smiling, as he left the table.

                "Let's go.  We might as well make an effort to enjoy it, if we have to do this," Wreneth grumbled, stalking off in the opposite direction.  Then turned around, realizing there was only one door out of the hall.

                Thirty minutes later found the two girls waiting before the front door, Hermione tapping her foot agitatedly and Wreneth pacing, looking occasionally at a watch she wasn't wearing.  Bill appeared moments later, hands shoved into his pockets, even whistling.  That was stopped promptly by the dual glares shot his way.  Burying a laugh, he headed through the doors and down across the lawns.  Mostly out of curiosity, the girls followed him.  For a little over a mile they walked in companionable silence; the light breeze and green fields even got to Wreneth.  All bad temper evaporated in the sunshine.

                Bill halted in a small valley, halfway around the castle and near onto the Forbidden Forest.  From his pocket he took a handkerchief, and a tiny basket.  An enlargement spell later, and they were ready for a picnic.  Blackberry pie, warm veggie pasties, fresh apples, and lots of cold pumpkin juice were laid out on the handkerchief-turned-blanket.  Munching sounds joined the soft twitter of birds and buzz of insects.

                "So, how long have you been planning this for?"  Hermione asked around a mouthful of apple.

                "This specifically, about ten minutes into breakfast.  Kidnapping you from research in general, about two weeks.  You girls left me no choice," Bill replied, and proceeded to stretch out full length on his back in the grass.  

                "Is that so?" Wreneth snapped, though the bit in her words was mellowed.  

                "Tis.  Since we arrived I've spent my weekends in my room, actually grading papers."

                "You're the DADA professor!  How many papers can you possibly have?  Unless you're Son of Umbridge!"

                "Thankfully, no," Bill answered, shuddering.  "I've had to assign more papers just to give myself something to do!"

                "Must this conversation revolve exclusively around exclamation points?"  Wreneth drawled from across the blanket, where she was slowly sliding onto her back.

                "Would you prefer semicolons?"

                "I, for one, would prefer a nap," Bill opined, and followed by promptly snapping his eyes closed.  The three sat in silence for a while, Hermione humming softly to herself and fiddling with sticks of grass while Wreneth lay still, but awake, contemplating the clouds.   After awhile Bill's breathing became deep and even in the way of all sleeper's.  Swiftly Wreneth leapt up and stalked over to the forest edge, returning with a long fern frond in hand.  Hermione grasped her meaning instantly, and, in a fit of childishness, grabbed her own. 

                On either side of Bill they sat, and lifted their ferns-turned-tools-of-torture.  Together they began on his arms, dragging the leaves lightly over his skin, teasing gently.  Slight twitches and shifts in the positions of his arms were their reward.  Wreneth began then, working her way meticulously, first along his neck, then to his jaw line, and up around to his face.  Bill's head would shake and flick and twitch in it's efforts to dodge the tickler, sometimes causing individual muscles in his face to spasm.  Hermione continued idly switching her fern along the soft skin on the underside of his forearm, exposed by a sudden change in position.  

                One particularly swift jerk brought Bill into an upright position, one arm wrapped around Wreneth's waist, while the other hand had found her wrist and the offending fern.  He released her just as quickly, and turned on Hermione, tickling her mercilessly until she was gasping for air between giggles.  Wreneth wasted no time in launching herself at Bill in a classic football tackle, knocking all three into a messy, giggling pig-pile.      

                Severus Snape was prowling his office.  If he were truthful with himself, he would admit that he was hiding.  As it was, he was pacing before the fireplace, reassuring himself that he was in the right, and darting into the closet-lab whenever he thought he heard someone at the door.  Minerva had been the only one presumptuous enough to actually enter his quarters without being acknowledged first; any other possible visitors had left after an initial knock.  He believed (read: _prayed_) that Granger had been among these.  

                Minerva had taken up a precious half-hour upon her visit.  He hadn't actually listened to her babbling; something about Gryffindor quidditch, and a live flobberworm left in someone's locker, suspicions of Slytherin, etc.  However, it had given him an excuse to lock the door (against possible student eavesdropping, he'd told her), and for that the woman could give out as many detentions as she wanted.

                Now it was falling close upon dinnertime, and a hard day's work of hiding would be wasted if he went to the meal.  The Granger chit would no doubt corner him, or set the other harpy on him, before they got round to desert.  Shame that, as he had been rather looking forward to the bread pudding.  It was his duty, though, as Headmaster to preside over meals.  

                Snape left his office late, measuring his steps to arrive just before the first course appeared.  He was desirous of spending as little time as possible in the Hall, and making as little idle chatter with his colleagues as possible.  Especially since a good portion of it would, as it had every Saturday evening since September, dwell upon the current events in the Granger-Proctor lab.  Sweet agony, he thought, sneer rising to his lips as he entered the hall.  Indeed, he could hear Minerva even now launching into it.

                "And how have you progressed today, m'dears?" she asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.  Snape's sneer intensified as he sat, and was greeted with curt nods and glances all around.  Granger refused to even recognize him.  Promising sign, that.

                "Actually, we weren't in the lab today," Wreneth answered, entirely too cheerily.  "We played hooky with Bill, went for a picnic."

                "Had to get them out in the fresh air, y'know.  Wouldn't want them to wither away in those dungeons," Weasley piped in, throwing one arm around the back of Granger's chair while the other shuttled chicken bits between plate and mouth.  Horrible spectacle, but Snape did owe him favor distracting the beasts.    

                "It did us a good turn, for certain," Hermione added.  She looked rather healthier for having some outdoor exercise.  Not quite so much like a zombie librarian, Snape noted.  He began to shovel away his own chicken at a healthy clip.  Maybe if he concentrated hard enough on chewing, he wouldn't have to hear every excruciating detail of the outing.  Ah, no such luck.  

                "Well, it really was the most fabulous lunch.  Bill even admitted to having made one of the pies.  Not without a good deal of prodding of course," Granger continued.  Her grin suggested that any prodding undertaken had been a less than torturous experience for all involved.  Bloody twenty-somethings.  Bad as the teens when it came to hormones.  It was with only a very small pang of regret that he eschewed desert in favor of a dignified retreat.

                Settled in his favorite chair with a snifter of brandy by his side and the infamous cribbed lab notes, Snape was far more comfortable.  He had already changed into nightclothes, and was ready to relax and slough off a good deal of the tension he'd been carrying about all day.  It would of course return tomorrow with the continuation of the Will She Won't She Notice game, but for a scant twelve hours, he could rest.

                Ah, no such luck.

                The door burst open to slam against the far wall, Wreneth posed dramatically in the frame.  Behind her, he could see the Granger girl, not quite as enthusiastic.  

                "May I ask why you are intruding upon my chambers at this hour of the night?" he asked frigidly.  The girls entered, one sauntering while the other settled for a more sedate stride.  Both were seated without invitation before he could protest.  

                "What do you mean this hour of the night?  It's barely eight Severus.  Hardly bedtime, even for folk as old as you," Wreneth replied airily, summoning a cup and conjuring the coffee to fill it.  She tasted it and grimaced.

                "You know conjured comestibles are vile," Hermione admonished gently.  Snape swallowed his own response, glad for once he'd been slow to speak.

                "Regardless the hour, why are you here?  It's highly rude to burst in without invitation.  I would expect better of you two," he snapped, and sipped at the brandy.  Carefully he began to edge the notes toward the end table, where they would be safely out of sight.

                "Just wanted to have a chat, commend you for your gracious acceptance of defeat, break bread in peace, share a cuppa as friends," Wreneth drawled.  Obviously she was in high spirits tonight, practically giddy.

                "Do stop trying to be English, Wreneth.  It only makes your vulgar Americanism more glaringly obvious."

                "Spoil-sport.  If that's how you're going to be – Hermione wanted you to look over some of her curriculum.  Lord knows why," she said, and settled into her chair with a frown.  Snape turned his glare onto the other girl.

                "Is this true?"  

                "Oddly enough, yes," she replied, and extended a sheaf of papers towards him.  Ah, the moment of truth: take the thinly disguised peace offering and be respectably civil to the girl, or refuse and have Wreneth surreptitiously set his things on fire for the next week.  With a scowl he snatched up the papers; sometimes it was wiser to give a little than to spend a week finding charred bits all over the office.

                Aforementioned scowl securely fixed on his face, he began to read the curriculum in earnest.  It was, he had to admit, quite comprehensive and instructive.  Give her a few years and Hogwarts would no doubt see OWLs and NEWTs of Hermione's own caliber, and from more than just the one or two outstanding students.  He reached for the end table, searching for a quill.  She had good ideas, indeed, but just a few corrections were needed to avoid the traps new teachers tended to fall into.  Especially when they were young.  He knew, he'd experienced them all.  No quill nearby; a summoning spell later he was scribbling away busily at the parchments. 

                Life is full of small catastrophes, tiny accidents.  They make life a little difficult, but tend to be nothing more than an annoyance.  Then there are times when the small catastrophes coincide, and suddenly, big catastrophes are born. 

                Snape did not notice that Hermione had pulled her chair closer to try and see what he was writing.  Which allowed Hermione to notice that Snape had been reading something when they'd burst in, and it was now lying in his lap.

  Nor did Snape notice that Wreneth, after exhausting every possible permutation of single-player I Spy, had begun to wander around his office and explore.  Wreneth, however, had taken notice of the small lab tucked away in the back.

Snape had also forgotten that and experiment he had put on to heat three days ago had reached its time, and indeed, passed it over two hours ago.  

Wreneth peeked her head into the lab.

"Severus, I think your experiment's going to go Mt. Etna!"

"What?" he barked, jerking his head up from Hermione's notes in time to see Wreneth disappear into the lab.  "Don't go in there, you daft cow!" he shouted, and leapt from his chair, realizing belatedly that the experiment was overcooked.

Both the syllabus and the research notes spilled to the floor. 

Hermione leant forward to clean them up.  Least she could do considering the circumstances.

BOOM!

That notation wasn't one from her syllabus.  And that procedure was far to advanced for her classes.  In fact…

Snape appeared again, dragging Wreneth from the lab.  Both were a little singed, and covered in what appeared to be vanilla pudding.

Hermione stood in the middle of his office, papers clutched in her hands.  A look of fury that would have sent Winston Churchill running for cover graced her face. 

 "SEVERUS SNAPE!  WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"


End file.
